Entrenched
by M. Carwright
Summary: During the fateful and entrenched Siege of Lemain, a skilled marksman is paired with a man looking to escape the weight of his responsibilities. In the hellfires of that day, one half of a brotherhood is forged. This is the story of how Athos and Aramis meet. Pre-series, multi-chapter fic - expect Hurt/Comfort in later chapters. Athos and Aramis only - no slash.
1. Duty Bound

**A/N:** It's been a long time since I wrote fanfiction and I've seriously missed it. As a birthday present to myself I promised myself I'd write and post a brand new fic and so here we are. Like it says in the description, this is going to be a multi-chapter fic in a similar length to A Mire of Trouble or maybe even longer. Please bear with me as I set the stage for a most epic adventure.

Entrenched

"Duty, Honor, Country. Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you ought to be, what you can be, what you will be." -Douglas MacArthur

Over the course of his career, Captain Jardis had come to realize that certain facts could always be predetermined based on specific indicators and truths. For example, he'd learned early that camp fights and tavern brawls would always follow parade days no matter how hard he tried to subdue them. He knew a messenger's news would be good if the man paused long enough to introduce himself. On a march, if the ground was spongy beneath his steps, he knew it would take twice as long to move cannons, and if the soil clung to the soles of his boots, then that time would treble. Jardis had even come to the conclusion that the state of a siege camp could be determined by the state of its bread.

That morning the bread shattered into dust when he poked it with his fork.

Jardis frowned and opted to leave his crumbled breakfast where it lay. He made due with the accompanying shriveled apple and promptly left his tent to instruct the camp cook to boil the bread in goat's milk for the rest of the men.

"Goat's milk sir?" The camp cook's bristly eyebrows lifted just enough to reveal a pair of squinting eyes. His lips pursed in a sour line.

Jardis pinched the bridge of his nose, "Yes, goat's milk. The quartermaster requisitioned some only yesterday." They were getting a slow but steady supply from a local farmer. It was one of the few food staples they could rely on. A supply wagon from the western camp was due any day, which might relieve a fraction of their supply problems, but he wasn't about to waste crumbs if he could help it.

"He may have requisitioned some but not enough to feed the whole line."

"Then cut it with water but you will not hand out bread that is little better than dust. I'll not have it feed the floor of the trenches."

"It'll mean breakfast'll be late for the men."

"Better late than not at all."

"The men won't be happy about it."

Jardis narrowed his gaze on the sour little man, "If you do your job properly, they'll be happy enough to receive a hot breakfast in lieu of a timely one."

The cook cleared his throat and straightened, "Er, yes sir."

With the first disaster of the morning settled, Jardis turned back down the lane. The early morning sun was just touching the edges of the camp; golden light spilling between the rows of picketed canvas. Behind him the dug-in line of trenches would still linger in darkness and Jardis was glad of it. The nightly barrage of cannon fire from the besieged town pounded the front line most hours of darkness until the wee hours and it was then that the hardened men of the front line clung to their rest. If the sun was late to reach down into the trenches then the men gained the benefit of extra moments of uninterrupted sleep.

Jardis glanced behind him to see the sun drenched walls of Lemain, thick and high, they were a strange blend of new and old. The height made them hard to scale and would have made them formidable in eras of old. Their thickness would have been added later as the need arose to withstand better cannon. The only saving grace was the fact that the upgrades had been limited to keeping with the old design of straight walls between towers and his men didn't have to contend with the killing crossfire of a star shaped fort of the newest era. He'd heard the horrors of such. Still they'd been here nigh on two months and still the besieged town was holding, and holding well enough to fire cannon through the night. A feat that was impossible without constant resupply. The question was how were they pulling it off?

Jardis muttered a curse; he'd lost more sleep to that mystery than he had to the bloody cannons themselves. If their tunnelers didn't find that errant supply tunnel soon they'd all be boiling their own shoe leather.

Jardis reached his tent and swept the canvas back to step inside.

"Sir!"

Jardis turned to see his lieutenant striding toward him. There was news on the younger man's lips and it was approaching without preamble. His stomach flopped on its emptiness.

Lieutenant Bachard started talking before he'd reached Jardis' side, "The northern cannon embankment was blown asunder in the night. The cannon's exposed. I've got Sergeant Alphonse and the men pulling her back but—"

There was a boom of cannon fire and both of them turned to see gray smoke billow off the walls.

Jardis swore softly. He turned back to Bachard, "How far along were they when you left?"

"Only just started but I doubled the crew. If the ground's still stable she'll be free in a half glass maybe two. But sir, we need to rebuild that embankment if we don't want to lose another forward gun emplacement."

"I know. Save the gun. I will speak with the commander. Report to me as soon as possible."

His lieutenant saluted and rushed back to the trenches.

Captain Jardis ducked inside and grabbed his hat from the corner of his desk. He scowled at the crumbled bread beside it. He firmed the feathered hat on his head and steeled himself for the coming argument with his commander. That bread was an omen. He should have known this day would mean trouble.

TMTMTM

"Absolutely not." Commander Lestrat leaned back from his desk. "Charging the walls requires men we don't currently have Captain Jardis. I will not waste them when this siege will just as simply be won by sitting back and letting nature take its course." The commander swept his hand over the map spread between them. The oblong shape of Lemain was ringed by the king's forces, main camps east and west, two support camps on the short walls of north and south. A metaphorical noose around the Huguenots' necks. A noose that was currently impotent without a strong jerk to yank it closed. Jardis clenched a fist behind his back to keep his frustration in check.

"If the king loses faith in this front and we continue to be under-supplied, nature's course will not work in our favor," he reasoned.

"Which is why your men are better spent finding that errant supply tunnel."

"Sir, with respect, we're down to three forward cannons. If we lose this placement, their north eastern flank will go unmolested and we'll face considerable risk of fighting an enemy sortie."

From inside the thick canvas command tent the thunder of cannon was muffled, distant. Even the answering call of their own cannon fire was subdued. Without even that sense of urgency to support his argument, Jardis knew he wouldn't win, the man would not be swayed.

"The answer is no. You will pull that cannon back. If it survives the ordeal, we will put it in reserve."

Jardis swallowed his rising dread. In part the commander was right, storming the walls was always a costly procedure. Each time they did so without gaining a foothold on the walls was another score of men lost for little, but Jardis could feel the control of the field slipping from their fingers and the loss of another cannon was a substantial decrease in weight and pressure. He struggled to grasp the commander's belief that they would win the siege simply by standing by it. Was it simply arrogance? Or disregard? Perhaps the walls of his tent were too thick to know of the true realities beyond.

Commander Lestrat met his gaze evenly and Jardis struggled to master himself.

"Excuse me sirs," someone had brushed open the door at Jardis' back and the commander leaned around him to acknowledge the messenger. There was the snap of a salute and the man stated his name — so it would be good news then.

"A column of fresh recruits has arrived and are awaiting your orders."

The commander nodded, "Send for the quartermaster."

"Yes, sir."

The commander turned his attention back to Jardis as the messenger departed, "Well Captain, it seems fortune favors your strategy today. You now have the men you need to repair that precious embankment of yours. I'll leave the particulars to you, and if you happen to win the day, I'll even ensure you take the credit." And Jardis was sure any resulting loss would ride on his head in equal measure.

He saluted his commander and turned on his heel before the anger that strangled all his words could fade enough for him to say something he would regret.

His long strides carried him toward the edge of camp and soldiers scattered out of his way at a glimpse of his expression. His lieutenant fell into step beside him and Jardis' mind churned for a full breath before he felt level enough to acknowledge the other man without unduly barking at him.

"Well Bachard, how did we fair?"

"We managed to free the cannon with minimal loss of life but it will take two score men at least to rebuild that bank. We could do it over the course of two nights but they'll know our intent and we won't go unmolested."

"Very well. Prepare the men. We attack before dusk. That should give you the diversion necessary to put two score men on the task and get it done before nightfall."

"Sir?" The lieutenant glanced at him in surprise.

"I said we attack the walls today, before dark."

"Your discussion with the commander was a success sir?"

"Only because we have new fodder to throw into the field." Jardis tipped his head to the milling group of men they were fast approaching.

"New recruits sir?" The younger man hesitated.

Jardis was not in the mood to watch his lieutenant struggle against propriety. "Yes. Spit it out man."

"It's just… Is that wise sir? We could use the new blood to bolster our ranks. Spilling it prematurely feels like a… well, a waste sir. They're green, they'll have no experience with the field."

Of course his lieutenant was right but Lestrat had made it clear they would only get this one chance to shore their lines and Jardis wasn't about to pass it up. Damn that man for making it a question of pride. Jardis didn't care for it either way but the blood would be on his hands and for all intents and purposes he would have spilled it to assuage his injured pride.

If that was what it took to end this infernal siege, then so be it.

"They'll be divided up and scattered through the ranks so they might well learn from the men around them. You'll pick a score or so who seem strong and might be steady under fire. Instruct them in the finer art of shoveling if you must. I want that cannon back in place before dark."

"Yes sir!" The lieutenant hurried off. There was a lot to do before they would be ready, but Jardis trusted his man to know his role. Before he could set about his own tasks however, there were the new recruits to deal with.

Jardis approached the aides bustling around a small table that the quartermaster had supplied for the task. The tall enlistment roll-book was already laid out and opened to a fresh page. An accompanying sergeant began bellowing the men into a rough line. By the way the men milled around in a disorganized tangle, he would be surprised if most of them survived the day.

For a moment Jardis felt bile rise to the back of his throat as his mind turned to the reality that it was once again his order that would send men to their deaths. It was a feeling he was familiar with and one that he hoped, and alternately feared, would lessen with time. Today he would take down the names and descriptions of every man before him and he would commit to memory the souls he chose to send to their deaths. The irony that he had nearly begged for today's privilege was at the forefront of his mind.

Jardis dipped the quill in the ink bottle and looked up at the first man. "Name?"

"Marlein."

Jardis' quill scratched across the yellowed page of the roll-book; _Slender, short brown hair, blue eyes, small nose, bowed lips, mole left cheek, baker's hands._

"Age or date of birth?" he asked, pausing for the answer.

"Age nineteen sir."

"Your father is a baker?"

The young man looked surprised at Jardis' guess, "Yes sir. From Limoges."

It was a shame the troubles they were facing couldn't be solved by finding a better baker.

"Good. Make your mark here… Next."

TMTMTM

"Name?" the stern faced captain asked. His quill hovered above the page.

When the letter had come from Paris demanding a commitment to the war effort, Athos had been strangely happy.

La Fere had little to offer its king for the war effort. His father had ferreted away arms and munitions as required of all old landed titles but La Fere couldn't boast an armed guard and it had one small village to call its own from which troops could be mustered at a point of need. The war with the Huguenots was such a time to France herself but to the estate, which was far removed from the conflict in the south, it was not. Any attempt to conscript Pinon's peasantry would therefore justifiably be met with anger and resentment, though what mattered more than the disapproval of its peasantry was the economic cost of stripping La Fere of its working farmers. With the weight of all of these concerns threatening to send his father from his sickbed straight to his grave, Athos had seen fit to take it upon himself to fulfill the king's request.

It wasn't until he was standing in line with the new recruits at the Siege of Lemain that he realized the true source of his eagerness to volunteer for war...

"My name is Athos."

The man who would be his captain leaned forward, sharp grey eyes flashing as they flicked over every detail of his person; the man's quill had yet to touch paper to add his name.

"Soldier, if you carry noble lineage you are entitled to declare it so we may grant you an officer's position."

It was strange to think that he had come all this way without knowing his true intent, but as the captain's questioning gaze cataloged his dress and his carry and correctly determined his standing, Athos came to realize that he had been hoping to escape it completely.

With his father ensconced on his deathbed and the prospect of being granted the title of Compte de la Fere looming, Athos had felt a growing desperation for more air. The precious little that he had was being squeezed from both sides as responsibilities began to pile high. Conversely, Catherine had been boiling with anticipation, predicting that a wedding would come shortly after an inevitable death.

The discerning gaze of the grim man before him with its weight of experience and calm assurance seemed to cut through all dissimulations and Athos found himself truthfully examining his thoughts and finding that he no more wanted to marry Catherine as he wanted the responsibilities of his heritage.

He had come here to escape all responsibility save one; that which he owed to his king.

"I have no desire to lead men to their deaths," he stated his answer as fact and indeed it _was_ one, honest and straightforward. For once he was setting aside all pretenses.

It was refreshing.

The captain seemed just as surprised by his answer. He examined Athos a moment more, a question in his pause that churned with obvious curiosity. "You would not lead men to their deaths but you are content to seek your own?" he asked.

The statement made it clear the captain expected officers to far outlive their men in this conflict. Armed with that knowledge, Athos didn't regret his declaration in the least.

"I seek to serve the king for a time. That is all."

"You must be sure of this. Should you declare your heritage you would be exempt from certain indecencies and be granted privileges that reflect your rank. If you do not declare it, I cannot be held accountable to your family should you perish. This is not to be taken lightly."

"My name is Athos. I wish only to serve my king."

Finally the captain bent his head to scribe Athos' name and details into the roll-book. Athos was alert for any sign of disgust or distaste but he was surprised to find nothing of the kind from the other man. Athos didn't dare hope that he had found understanding, it would be too much to ask.

"Have you any experience in the field?" the captain asked, still recording his detailed description.

"Yes. A few skirmishes."

"Can you load a musket?"

"I've had some practice."

"Good." He pointed to the blade at Athos' hip without looking up, "If that is a dress sword then I urge you to replace it."

"I know the difference. I came to war, I didn't come to court."

The captain snorted. Finally he met Athos' gaze. "I'm eager to see how you fare." The man nodded, satisfied and decisive. He pointed at the supply tables, "Helmet, musket, powder, and shot. Ignore the standard issue steel. Gather the rest and standby at the front. Wait for me there. I have a special matter I wish to discuss with you."

TMTMTM

Standing relaxed at attention amidst the nervous shifting of the new recruits gave Athos plenty of time to grow familiar with the camp and the field he could glimpse beyond it. In the distance he could see the besieged town, its walls stout and well fortified, built of large blocks of stone from the surrounding countryside. Men were moving across the ramparts, light flashing off their helmets to look like the glistening ripples of a flowing stream. The attackers, in contrast, were dark shapes at their feet, moving like brown beetles through the furrowed wood of an infested tree. The trench lines were long and deep, running wider than the width of the camp, curving around the walls as if a giant had dropped the town from above and rippled the ground beneath it.

Both parties were well established, a clue that spoke to the length of the siege to date and Athos couldn't help but admire the Huguenots' tenacity. But perhaps that made sense, the men on the walls were fighting for more than just their freedom; they fought for their lives and livelihoods.

The captain stood and addressed the assembled men, introducing them to a Lieutenant Bachard who would be in charge of handling their dispersal through the ranks. He asked that they follow the guidance of the men who had been living on the field these past months who they would be paired with. The news that there would be an attack before dusk rushed through the new recruits like a cold wind.

Athos glanced at the men around him who, in truth, were mostly boys and little better than farmhands and he felt a twinge of dread. He wondered if this was what the captain had had in mind when we he had asked if Athos was purposely seeking his own death.

The captain stepped aside to let his lieutenant continue with the task of dividing the men into smaller groups. He caught Athos' eye and motioned him out of the line-up as he turned away from the training field.

The captain led him away from the milling recruits and through the pitched camp.

As soon as they were out of earshot he began speaking, "Athos, I don't care if you're the son of a Comte or the bastard of one, if you have prior experience with a musket then I have a special task for you."

The captain's words seemed to suggest he felt a need to excuse the act of singling Athos out. Athos supposed that if the captain considered himself to be a fair man above all else then perhaps that was exactly what the man would need to say to justify the action.

He followed the captain through the camp without comment.

Past the picketed tents, the trenches were in a state of controlled preparation. The dug earth was well packed and reinforced with boards and beams, some walls were bulked up by rolled bundles of willow. The men he saw look grizzled and experienced; their varied mixture of clothing, leather, and armor weathered and worn. The wide-eyed naiveté of the new recruits was nowhere to be found here. Instead inexperience had been filed down and replaced with a laconic grit that Athos was at once familiar with.

Athos was amused to find himself relaxing after leaving behind the heightened tension and fear of the recruits. These men would welcome his skills, not stare in fear at its mark of status and privilege.

The captain picked up the conversation again as they snaked through the narrow trenches toward the walls, "Our cause was granted fusiliers to support our six cannons and their crews. As they've been with us since the beginning, their numbers are declining. The best marksman who remains is in need of a man who can load muskets as fast as he can fire. Seeing as he's one of the best that I have left, it would be of extra benefit if that same charge could also watch his back. He is a touch… exuberant. Well I'm sure you'll see for yourself. Ah here we are."

They rounded a sharp bend and the trench widened into a small alcove. Three men lounged in various positions of exhausted repose and boredom around the base of the walls, their features at first obscured and made equal by the ocher color of dirt and dried mud across their faces and clothes. A final man stood leaning with his chest flat against the top of the trench, elbows braced against bundles of willow, hands grasping a musket that was trained on a distant enemy that Athos couldn't see from the bottom of the trench. A dove grey hat sat next to the marksman on the lip of the embankment.

"Aramis, this is Athos. Athos will be your new partner on the field. I expect you to treat him accordingly."

The captain turned to go but stopped at Athos' shoulder. He lowered his voice. "This is as far as I go for you Athos, and only because this is of benefit to both of us. I urge you to take heed." With that the captain left to prepare the rest of his men for what was to come.


	2. First Meeting

Watching the captain leave, Athos was not entirely sure what to make of the man's final words. It was a warning to be sure but did it pertain to Athos' own future conduct, or was it a warning that suggested he should be wary of his new partner…

Athos turned back to the man in question. His prospective partner was still sighting down the length of his musket.

The man didn't turn to look at Athos but he'd clearly taken a moment to glance at him because he said in a jovial tone, "Well you're much older than the last one."

Athos tensed. The tone was questioning, but a game like that could go both ways. "The captain seems to think you're valuable enough to warrant protection."

There was a loud crack and burst of powder as the man took his shot. Far off in the distance someone screamed as the ball found a target on the walls.

That was a long distance indeed…

Answering gunfire peppered the crown of the trench and the marksman dropped down almost casually.

"Nice shot Aramis!" another soldier yelled from farther along the ditch, "Next time get the one to the left, I'm tired of seeing his hairy face."

"Then come over here and spot him for me," the marksman called back, a mischievous twinkle in his eye that made Athos instantly wary.

He turned to Athos. "So you're my protection?" the man lifted his hat from the top of the wall and brushed the dust off its brim. "Captain Jardis usually doesn't aim to get rid of anyone that quickly. Did you insult his mother?" he grinned and Athos felt his eyebrow twitch. Wherever this man was from, Athos was sure the women all knew him by name.

The soldier joined them, "I'm not sure how you can miss him Aramis. He's practically as hairy as a badger." He slipped his foot into the step carved into the earth and leveraged himself up to take a look. Shots rang out and he flinched back to Aramis' burst of laughter.

The marksman slapped the man on the back, "Maybe in a little while then, eh? Lesson number one. Keep your head down."

The man left in a flurry of uttered curses and Aramis set to reloading his gun, "It's pretty easy to stay alive from back here, just gotta survive the boredom and disease. It's out there that things get interesting. There's not much for cover and when you reach it you have to huddle in tight. The closer you get to the walls, the easier it is for them to shoot you. If you want to die quicker just forget to keep your head down."

The man's hands flew through his task and Athos was sure the man was faster at it than he would ever manage no matter how much practice he'd be getting from here out. So engrossed in watching the motions, it took a moment for Athos to realize the man's words were meant for him.

"I'll fire as fast as you can load but we'll bring three loaded muskets with us at the start. Follow right behind me and don't get lost. Once we're in position, I'll start taking out defenders and gun crews if I can spot them." The marksman finished with his own weapon and pointed to Athos's newly issued musket, "May I?"

The man seemed surprised when Athos handed it over without argument. Brown eyes sharpened into calculating clarity with a speed that was almost dizzying to watch. The moment passed and he began inspecting the gun, checking the pan and mechanism, sighting down its length, cleaning it and loading it.

Inspection and loading done, Aramis primed the pan and lit the slow match off his own. He stepped up to the wall.

The hat came off again as he very carefully slipped the barrel over the ridge, pushing the gun just over the earth and keeping his head down. Even more slowly he leaned up, lining up the shot. His shoulders settled on an exhale and then he fired and tucked flat, not even flinching as the spit of return fire threw dust and splinters into the air around him.

"You missed!" the other soldier yelled.

After a quick glance to see the result for himself he dropped back down.

His lips quirked as he handed the musket off to a sleeping man slouched in the corner. "Never mind that one. You've got a pistol. If it's clean you'll be better off with that. Later you can keep one of the spares."

Athos wasn't sure how he felt about being so disarmed but he couldn't deny that the man seemed skilled indeed and if he deemed a weapon unfit then Athos would be wise to listen.

Aramis retrieved his hat and swept his hair back with one hand as he set it on his head. He glanced sidelong at Athos, his expressive face changing from bland amusement to frowning curiosity.

"Huh," he said.

"What?" Athos asked.

"Well for one, I think you're actually listening to what I have to say. And for two, given that you've found your way to the bottom pit of hell on earth, I'd say you're taking this all rather well."

Athos frowned, "Wouldn't you say it makes sense to take the advice of someone with experience in the given circumstance?"

"So, you're older _and_ wiser than the last one." The marksman snorted and leaned down to sit with his back to the wall. "And to answer your question, not always no. What if I didn't like you?"

"And do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Not like me." Athos chose the clear patch across from the man and sat.

"Ah. I mean hypothetically."

"That didn't answer the question."

"Well how should I know? I've only just met you. But my point is, not everyone you meet around here can be trusted. Which, well, I'm sure you'll see for yourself soon enough."

Another cryptic warning? Hadn't he had enough of those today?

Athos found himself staring at the marksman.

This man was exactly contrary to anything Athos could've expected. The man's carefree attitude was totally at odds with his environment and it was interesting that even he himself seemed to know it.

Athos ended his musings on a huff, "So don't trust anyone, not even you. Fine. Anything else?"

Aramis tipped his head, "That serious attitude you're carrying around is going to get heavy. You should learn to lighten up."

One of the sleeping men beside Aramis roused, "For pity's sake Aramis, could you play social butterfly somewhere else? You might sleep through the night but I sure don't."

"Athos, meet Gerome." Aramis hiked a thumb in the gaunt man's direction, "He's a grumpy bastard."

"Shut it," Gerome growled.

Aramis grinned, "See?"

Gerome glared at the marksman, the look made more threatening by the crooked bent of a once-broken nose, "You done?"

Athos gave his eyebrow the free reign it so desperately desired and felt it climb his forehead, "Does _anyone_ have cause to like you Aramis?"

Both men turned to stare at him.

"What?" Athos motioned between them, "You don't think that was a fair question?"

Their silence broke as one, both men suddenly laughing; Aramis' laughter light and soft, Gerome's a low chuckle.

"You know, I think I like this one," Aramis said to his companion, his eyes twinkling.

"He's funnier than the last one, I'll give you that." Gerome leaned across the trench and extended a hand. "Welcome to hell, my friend. It'll be a pleasure to share it with you."

Athos took the offered hand, starting to think that he really had fallen off the world somehow.

The sound of a pot clanging seemed to rouse the rest of the soldiers around them and suddenly men who seemed fast asleep only a moment before were awake and rummaging through their gear. Athos watched the bustle with a mild sense of confusion before he realized the gear the men were reaching for consisted of bowls and spoons. Mealtime.

He glanced into the sky; finding the sun amidst the gathering clouds and guessing it was nearing midday, maybe just before.

"Here," Aramis was holding out a battered pewter bowl. "Don't use the communal cup."

"I take it they don't issue these standard," Athos said dryly, taking the offered dish.

"They used to," Aramis held up his own shallow bowl. It was only in marginally better shape than the one Athos was holding.

Gerome nodded, "Now if you want one, you can get em off the poor souls out there they haven't gotten round to burying yet."

"Boredom and disease you say."

"I find praying helps," Aramis said.

Athos sent him a withering look.

The man answered with the quicksilver flash of a smile.

Athos watched three men slowly approach through the trench toward them. A sergeant escorted the two men through the process of delivering food to the front line troops; one man to carry the massive cast iron pot and the second man to wield the ladle. The man doing the ladling was easily taller than Athos by at least a head and a half. The giant of a man had grim features with a scar that ran the length of his cheek and a dark cast to his eyes. Liquid slop was ladled into waiting bowls and cups with blunt and uncaring efficiency. When the man stood in front of Athos with the ladle raised to his bowl, he paused.

"You're new aren't you," the man said. The man's words seemed to catch the attention of the attending sergeant.

Athos stared up at the big man, feeling a heightened tension that raised the hair on the back of his neck. The sergeant looked on with interest, but it wasn't an interest born of curiosity. If anything it seemed more … eager somehow.

"Is that a concern of yours?" Athos asked, meeting challenge for challenge.

The man chuckled low in his throat. "Just looking to give a fellow an honest welcome is all."

Aramis cleared his throat loudly from behind the three men.

The sergeant glanced in his direction, his focus on Athos broken for a moment. He seemed to catch himself then as he caught sight of Aramis and he tapped the scarred soldier on the arm, "Come on. Just serve the man, Gilles."

Gilles finished ladling a portion of whitish slop into Athos' bowl. He straightened to his full height and returned to his task. For a moment he seemed to lock eyes with Aramis who was seated with his elbows propped on his knees and his bowl held perfectly still in one hand, spoon hovering over his food.

Gerome was equally engrossed in the exchange, never taking his eyes off the two men sizing each other up as he steadily shoveled food into his mouth.

Finally the group moved away and Athos felt the tension ease.

When they were finally out of earshot, Gerome stood and crossed the trench to sit next to Athos.

"That's Sergeant Bernet," he said in a low voice, "You're gonna need to watch him. He's a mean one that one." He raised the lip of his bowl to his mouth and took a long slurp, his eyes darting to the man in question.

"And the other one?" Athos asked. Was it strange the man he chose to introduce was the less-imposing sergeant?

"Gilles." Gerome wiped his mouth, "He likes doing people's dirty work. Ah but don't worry. You stick with us and you'll be fine. They'll leave you alone."

And why was that Athos wondered.

Athos glanced at Aramis but the marksman was absently stirring his food, his gaze firmly on the boards sunken into the trench floor.

Gerome frowned into the dregs of milky liquid at the bottom of his bowl. "Breakfast for lunch, lunch for dinner," he grumbled, "You'd think you'd get dinner sometime else, but no, of course not. You get dinner in your dreams instead."

"Well it's warm. That counts for something," Aramis muttered, taking a slow sip, "And I think the sludge in this was actually bread at some point. Hard to really tell now though."

Gerome shrugged, "Is it food? Then I'm not complaining."

"Ha, cheers to that." Aramis glanced at Athos, the mischievous twinkle making a reappearance as if his moment of melancholy was a gust of wind on a sunny day, "Don't worry Athos, you'll learn to like it, just like the rest of us."

Athos sloshed the contents of the bowl dubiously and turned to Gerome, "So you liked it?"

"Nope," the man shook his head and frowned, "Tasted like butt."

"Goats milk is a delicacy in Paris," Aramis said with a sage nod.

Gerome scoffed, "When you think we're in Paris let me know. I'll pinch you to remind you that you're dreaming."


	3. Under Threat

Shortly after mealtime a call echoed down the line to prepare for the attack on the walls and a sense of barely controlled chaos jolted through the trenches as men began preparing in earnest to go into the field. More than a few hands reached inside coats for crosses and rosaries and Athos couldn't quell the shudder of his own nerves.

The mood between Athos' new companions sobered noticeably and both men turned to their weapons, setting scabbards and sheaths properly on their belts, checking triggers and mechanisms and their individual supply of powder and shot. Athos was mirroring the actions even before he made a conscious effort to do so.

He settled the military issued helmet on his head and instantly regretted the extra weight on his neck. Only half the men he could see wore helmets, more than a few wore wide-brimmed hats or bandannas and of course Aramis had his feathered hat. Athos wondered if it was a conscious choice of risk to stay agile and limber. Athos wished he'd brought a hat of his own. He'd prefer light and fast over armored and slow even in a fight against muskets.

He frowned, maybe especially in a fight against muskets since he'd seen shot go through breast plates before. Well it was what it was for now. If the enemy decided to throw rocks at him, he'd be safe.

"Aramis," a breathless boy of about twelve wove through the gathering press of soldiers, his small frame loaded down by two muskets and a wooden chest strapped to his back.

The marksman waved the boy forward. He took the muskets and handed them off to Athos, already seemingly trusting that Athos would take them in turn, which he did without comment. "Only two?" the marksman asked, turning the boy around to open the chest on his back.

The boy nodded, points of color sitting high on his cheeks, "They needed the third somewhere else. I went to Bachard when they tried to take a second."

"Good boy." Aramis swiftly loaded fresh cartridges into his side kit. He pulled out the cartridge box and its remaining contents and handed it to Athos, then he closed the box and swept an arm across the boy's shoulders, "You have a message?"

"Lieutenant Bachard sends his regards and says you and your man are to take the south side of the field. He says Verne and Remi will follow the main body to the old stables and Jacque has the north. You're to cover the men storming the gate. He said he expects you back by morning. Oh and Verne says you're a lucky bastard."

"So standard fare then," Aramis grinned. "If you see Jacque on your route, tell him I'll see him on the other side."

The boy nodded and Aramis gently shoved him back into the thoroughfare to continue on his way.

"At this rate it'll be raining tomorrow," Gerome said darkly, his eyes on the towering clouds on the horizon. They did indeed look more grey than they had an hour ago.

"Look on the bright side... If we die, we won't have to live through tomorrow's rain," Aramis said, hefting his musket and firming his hat on his head.

"You always know how to put me in a good mood Aramis," Gerome answered sarcastically. He reached out and clasped hands with him, "Give em hell."

"Don't worry, they won't even see it coming."

Gerome gave Athos a curt nod as the two men broke off their farewell. "You two'd better get going. They'll be bringing the ladders up soon."

Aramis tipped a corner of his hat and slipped past Gerome to head southward along the trench line.

Athos stepped up and held out a hand for Gerome to shake. He moved to follow Aramis.

Gerome slapped a hand on his chest as he passed. The gaunt man leaned in close, "You watch his back. Got that? If you come back without him…"

"I can assure you I'll do what I can." He took a step forward but Gerome held him back.

"And that'd better mean your best."

Athos met the man's stare, instantly tiring of the man's tenacity and letting a bit of cold threat bleed through his words in turn, "Count on it."

The other man nodded and finally withdrew his hand to let Athos past.

Athos moved through the milling soldiers until he could see Aramis' grey hat ahead of him. He put his head down and pushed through the crowd, ignoring the dirty looks of the men he brushed past. He made it around the next bend and Aramis pushed off the wall to appear at his elbow.

There was a hollow boom as Lemain's cannons barked to life. Shouts and calls ranged up and down the line and a few cracks of gunfire followed. An arcing whistle sounded overhead and a plume of dirt rose from somewhere beyond the trenches.

"This way," the marksman diverted them down a short dogleg to a parallel section of trenchwork, "There's a vantage point up ahead."

Another boom and this time a heavy thwack as the ball landed nearby. Everyone ducked, Athos feeling the pressure against his lungs like a ripple on the surface of a pond. A fountain of earth clogged the air. Heavy clumps rained down, clicking against helmets and sunken boards.

Athos shifted the two muskets more firmly against his shoulder and glanced at Aramis as the man straightened and continued on their way.

Athos fell into step beside him. "You're a lot quicker to trust than your friend back there," he said, letting the steady calm of his voice lull the staccato pounding of his heart.

Aramis glanced at him.

Perhaps the man guessed what had transpired but Athos was getting the sense that it would be a mistake to bring it up directly. That suited Athos just fine; he had lots of practice talking around a subject.

Aramis finally shrugged, "He's always been risk averse."

Somehow Athos doubted that. The man's words had hardly been an empty threat. Someone who was risk averse wouldn't have bothered to make the challenge in the first place.

"If he cares so much, why isn't he your partner?" Athos raised his voice to be heard over the howl of cannon as their own guns began to answer.

"Different company," Aramis said over his shoulder. "Gerome's a regular under the commander's own regiment. Bernet's his sergeant. There's not many of my company left but we report directly to Lieutenant Bachard and Captain Jardis. I would imagine it's easier to assign men from the fresh recruits than draw them out from under Lestrat's banner. Now there's a man who doesn't bend."

Athos could easily grasp the complexity of the situation. In fact it was a common problem that extended across the entire peerage system. You might be of higher standing than another man's servant but that did not give you the right to countermand his master's orders by delivering your own unless your rank was so much higher than his master's that you could weather the defacing of it. Either way it was not considered good grace.

"In some ways it doesn't mean anything," Aramis continued, "We're all carded together and strung along the same front line. But in other ways, it means everything."

Athos realized he was looking at one piece to an earlier puzzle. As part of a specialized unit, Aramis was outside the direct line of command and thus he was outside of Sergeant Bernet's authority. But by that same token, even if Aramis chose to go to his superiors about the officer's conduct, it was unlikely his captain would have the freedom to interfere with the commander's men.

It was a stalemate of sorts.

Although the fact that the marksman's sheltering influence extended far enough to protect his friends from their own sergeant was interesting. Perhaps there was also something more at play.

The trench they were following was beginning to narrow, puddles of brackish water spanning the base of the dugout with increasing regularity. Athos got the sense that they were walking down hill and he wondered what they would find when they reached the bottom. A young messenger with a harried expression rushed past and they were forced to draw back against the walls to let him through.

More sporadic gunfire echoed behind them.

Aramis frowned, "They should be saving their powder," he muttered, the words so soft Athos barely caught them.

The marksman ducked through a passageway that was barely wide enough for one man and led them up a short slope that ended in a waist-height alcove with a shallow crown. He crouched to stay below the bulwark and sidled up to the far wall. Athos joined him, mindful of staying low.

Aramis pulled a scope from his belt and extended it through a dip in the mounded soil to get a view of the field beyond. "The men will rush the gates with ladders and a ram," he said, "They have a hundred yards of broken ground to cover with cannon and muskets hounding them. There's very little cover along the main road, a few overturned carriages and some dead horses, until they reach the burned-out shell of what used to be an inn and stables."

He shifted to the side and handed Athos the scope.

Athos took it and carefully leaned over to sight onto the field. He could see the distant walls and the gate and road leading to it with the collapsed walls of the inn just to the right. On both sides of the road were fields that stretched the length of the town walls. There was a sparse copse of trees on the southernmost edge of his view and he could just make out a scattered rocky outcropping to the north.

White smoke billowed off the walls from the intermittent burst of cannon fire. As Athos watched, a ball whistled overhead and blasted into the trench line behind them. Both of them flinched low as they were showered with dirt.

Aramis spat grit from his mouth and pulled out his dagger. He scored two parallel lines into the ground and then one across to indicate the road.

He gestured to the spaces to either side of the road, "If you cut across the broken ground of the fields, you have shallow ditches that run crosswise to your path. It takes courage to press on at each rise but they offer only a false sense of security. Anyone who stops in those ditches will be dead before they reach the walls. The few exceptions are an old sheared-off windbreak whose broken tree stumps offer an extra foot of protection against the guns and a portion of a crumbled stone wall. Most of the wall is too shallow to do any good but one twelve foot stretch is backed by a dry culvert." He pointed to the rough placement of each feature, both of which were to the south of the road.

"If you get to the sparse tree line to the southern edge of the field, don't leave the trees on the other side. The far south of Lemain is swamp. The sporadic tree line ends at thirty yards out so it's often your best option to get back to the safety of the trenches, but not always. The marksmen on the top of the walls have been staring through the gaps of those trees for two months and they'll know them by rote. Moving through the trees is the most likely time you'll be shot unawares."

"I take it you've done this a few times," Athos commented dryly.

Aramis flashed that devilish smile again; Athos was beginning to recognize it as customary. "Once or twice," the marksman said.

"And it doesn't faze you to go out there again?" Around them the sounds of preparation were dying off, as if the entire trenchworks were drawing in a breath.

Aramis arched an eyebrow, "What do you think? Although, any lady I've ever met likes a good story and it's harder to tell those if you haven't lived them first."

Athos snorted and shook his head. He studied the makeshift map, committing it to memory and comparing it to what he'd seen through the scope.

The last echo of French cannons drew to a close.

Inhale.

"What about this side?" He pointed to the northern portion of the field, thinking about the men assigned to the task of their parallel route.

"There's an old farmstead fifty yards out lying midway between the road and the jagged stone outcroppings that make up the north side of town, but that's about it. There aren't any trees that back onto the walls in the north and if you're caught out in that rocky section in full daylight… well…. It might look like there's cover but it's scrubland at best and more flat than you'd think."

"If you're assigned to that side of the field you're practically a dead man?" Athos glanced at the marksman, trying to gauge his reaction.

Inhale. Hold.

"If you can get to the farm, you can make it. But even then, it can be a long wait to get back out." Aramis' gaze hardened on a memory or a loss. Perhaps not the kind of story to tell prospective lovers.

"And the longest you've been stuck out there?"

"Two days. If you feel like you're pinned down, then you probably are and your best bet is to wait it out. It's not ideal but trust me…, for the most part it's preferable to being dead."

He looked at Athos with a sideways quirk to his lips, "You know, most people don't care for this much detail."

"You said it yourself; for the most part it's preferable to being dead."

Aramis laughed. "Touche."

A call was taken up and repeated down the line. Make ready, make ready, make ready…

The air stilled. A sudden silence falling across the field.

The whole world holding its breath.

Aramis sheathed his dagger, a wild look in his eyes. "All right, here's the plan." He leaned forward and pointed, "We rush with the main charge to the stone wall, then skirt along till we hit the culvert. We take a turn and move through a low dip until we hit the large boulder that sits about here. That's our spot." He took up his musket and pressed his back against the rammed earth. A gust of wind buffeted the feathers on his hat.

Athos felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.

It was time to exhale.

The pregnant anticipation burst and so did the silence.

As one, the French cannons spat tongues of fire and iron. The echoing thunder was taken up by a roar that rose from the furrowed earth as men poured up and out of the trenches. Battle cries and yells melded into one long howl.

And then the enemy let loose.


	4. In the Field

The marksman surged out of the trench with silent intensity. No words from his lips, no battle cry; he simply leveraged himself over the mounded earth and joined the rush of men.

Athos stared at the place Aramis had been only a moment before and briefly contemplated the ridiculousness of being left behind. The marksman had been so talkative prior that Athos supposed he'd been expecting the man to announce all his intentions in the same manner, not to conceal something as important as their moment of attack…

Athos scrambled with far less grace than he would've liked over the loose dirt and out of the trenches.

The full view of the field opened before him as he gained the high ground and joined the charge.

The walls of Lemain were barely visible behind a shifting curtain of white. Flashes of orange signified cannon placements and sang out as harbingers of destruction. The shots punched through the curtain of smoke and it roiled and twisted in response, as if eager to escape the heat of its own creation.

Those same shots met the ground a moment later, often with explosive gouts of rock and soil as they burrowed deep. Men caught in the marrying of iron and earth were cast asunder, but that wasn't always the way of it…

As Athos charged across the field, men streaming over the broken ground beside him and ahead of him and behind him, a ball chipped across the ground and found a horizontal path through the fray, cutting two men clean through. The ball kept going, taking another five men by the ankles before Athos lost sight of it. The roar of the charge quickly dipped beneath the screams of the dying.

Ahead of him, Aramis was in a flat-out run, musket held like a lance. He reached the first ditch and crested it without slowing.

When Athos began to hear the high whine and whistle of cannon shots zipping overhead, he felt a flutter of relief as it occurred to him that he was beginning to outpace the guns' effective range. Then he reached the first dip and Aramis' words came back to him. 'Anyone who stops in the ditches will be dead before they reach the walls.' And as if to prove the point, a shot landed in the base of the ditch beside him sending a shockwave through the soles of his boots. He ducked into it, his arm coming up to shield his face as stone chips and hot metal flew past.

Athos gritted his teeth and pressed on, struggling to see through the grit blurring his vision. He scrambled out of the ditch and onto flat ground, somehow spotting Aramis ahead of him. Every effort became about keeping his footing and closing that distance. He barely felt the burning hunger in his lungs for more air or the screaming ache of his tiring muscles.

As the bulk of the men reached the ditch behind him, more and more shots pounded into the ground.

Athos realized with detached clarity that the ditches were ranging landmarks. The gunners on the walls knew exactly how far to depress the cannons to hit each target as the attackers reached them one after another on their approach.

In the same detached way, Athos remembered visiting the ocean with his brother. The sun was warm, the sweat drying on their backs beneath their shirts from the heat of the day. White gulls turned overhead, their bodies flashing like bright pebbles in a stream. The sand shifted beneath each footfall, absorbing each step as if it could alter time itself, the slower pace making the experience linger; the colors vivid, the ocean air rich and tangy.

Athos could remember racing his brother to the waves, the plunge into cold water at first shocking and then refreshing, tossing water at Thomas, then diving out of reach.

He remembered feeling the surge of each wave. Feeling the water push against him, then tug him back. And then that glorious moment, when he discovered he could dive ahead of them to ride them out.

Catching a wave was all about timing. Dive too early and the wave would pass you by, too late and it would leave you behind, too near the crest and you would sink, but just right and you would soar like the gulls.

Just like that day, so many years past, the lesson here was the same. It wasn't simply a matter of crossing the field as quickly as possible to reach safety; it was also a matter of running faster than the bulk of the other men, and yet not so fast as to fall prey to the first volley of musket fire in the front. If you got it right, you might just live to see tomorrow.

Here, with the ground rushing by beneath him, twisting and changing before he could see it, with the hiss and snap of bullets and a blood-pounding roar in his ears, the air thick with smoke and an acrid tang of gunpowder. Here, in this moment, he was free. Flying in the face of death and destruction.

Athos could barely feel the grin on his lips but he knew it was there by the surge of wild emotions in his heart. He was alive. There was nothing more simple than that.

A hand reached out to drag him from his thoughts, and Athos kept his feet with years of fencing practice. He allowed the marksman to pull him sideways, realizing he'd been so focused he'd nearly missed the stone landmark.

The marksman didn't pause long enough to say anything, and his expression stayed impassive as he led them at speed along the shallow wall. Athos followed, the untamed rush of his emotions narrowing into determination. Men poured over the obstacle past them; one cutting across Athos' path only to die in a jerk and spray of blood as he gained the top.

Aramis leapt over the tumbled stone wall where it passed over a shallow depression, the wall suddenly thigh-high.

The dry culvert.

They quickened their pace as they followed the low ground away from the main body of men. The roaring, screaming, whistling carnage receded behind them, their divergence noted by one or two sporadic cracks of musket fire.

Suddenly Aramis was pulling him down into the lee of a small boulder and a tangle of scrub. The entire width of the depression and natural-made shield barely fit the two of them abreast. They lay on their backs for a moment, side by side, catching their breath. An occasional shot peppered the edge of their shelter.

Athos glanced at Aramis with an arched eyebrow, "This is the boulder you were talking about?"

"It's right where I said it would be."

"I'd say it's a bit small to be called a boulder."

"If you see a bigger one around here, you let me know."

A bullet hit near enough that Athos felt wood and rock chips scatter against his coat. He squinted and turned his face to keep the dust and splinters out of his eyes. "And how do you plan to avoid getting shot?"

"Well before, I'm sure it helped that my companions were always rather narrow across the shoulders."

"What about now?"

"Now we get to work."

"That's not what…" Athos sighed, "Nevermind, as you were."

Aramis gave him a strange look, brow furrowed in thought. He seemed to let a question go unasked and tipped his head back to look at the sky. He held his musket tight to his chest, a calming pause that Athos registered as prayer. He glanced at Athos, "Ready?"

"You're going to ask that now? What about before when you nearly left me behind?" Maybe his exasperated tone was too acerbic, but he was in a mood to leap; either the man would stiffen and retaliate, or he would take it in stride.

"Better late than never?" the marksman flashed a grin that reflected Athos' moment of soaring freedom in the face of danger.

Aramis rolled onto his chest, sighted down the barrel of his musket, and fired.

TMTMTM

Aramis gritted his teeth as he pressed the musket against his shoulder for the umpteenth time; the repeated action and kickback from each shot beginning to aggravate the healing injury in his shoulder. It wasn't a serious threat, but the healing scar from L'île de Rié was still tender, and now the pain was beginning to echo across his collarbone. With each shot it became more of a distraction until he could feel a bead of sweat trail past his temple with the effort of concentrating through each motion.

Take the next musket, seat the match, settle into position, find a target, aim, breathe, exhale, squeeze the trigger, breathe through the jolt of pain, hand off the weapon and take the next. Again and again.

It wasn't until his new companion handed him a musket for the fifth time that he remembered they'd only brought three with them. The man had already reloaded twice without Aramis having to slow his pace.

He glanced at the man who was a few years his senior.

"Let me guess…," Athos said, his lips quirked in a quiet smile that seemed to be as far as his expressions would ever go, "I'm faster than the last one."

"Don't waste time talking about it," Aramis said as he took the offered musket and lined up another shot, "You'll fall behind." He grinned and fired on an exposed man aiming down a French ladder. The shot winged the defender and he tumbled to his death.

Aramis rolled back into cover, handing Athos the spent musket. The man snorted and took a breathless moment reloading with shots pinging and zipping into the edges of their earth and bramble shield. Aramis watched him this time and determined that he was indeed fast and efficient. There was a surety about his motions that mirrored the confident manner with which he seemed to approach everything in his path.

Aramis was beginning to suspect the man was highborn; certain mannerisms and turns of phrase acting like breadcrumbs on a trail. And yet the man had presumably chosen to forego a rank by not declaring it. The man wasn't a soldier, but he clearly had the skills. He was an enigma to be sure.

Aramis turned back to scan the ramparts for his next target. A few more ladders had reached the base of the walls and more men were clambering upward, most dying on the ascent as the defenders caught them in an exposed crossfire. A few men climbed one-handed and leveled pistols at the threats above.

The south was faring better than the north. For a moment Aramis wondered if Jacque had made it, but there wasn't anything he could do if the other fusilier hadn't, so he put it out of his mind.

He watched as a man in a brown hat took aim from the gate's south tower. The man's actions were smooth and calculated, catching Aramis' attention. The enemy marksman aimed at the tangle of men trying to burst through the doors below and his shot felled the accompanying sergeant before he ducked back to reload or swap guns. The soldiers holding the battering ram faltered as they lost the guidance of their leader. A young ensign stepped up to fill the older man's role, and a moment later the marksman in the brown hat returned to bury a bullet in the boy's throat.

When Athos handed him his next musket, Aramis was more than ready for it. This time the pain was easy to ignore. The sharpshooter in the brown hat was his mark.

He waited. His breathing slow and measured, the lit end of the slow match a glowing red coal in one corner of his vision. The man reappeared, and Aramis fired. The shot glanced off the stone crenulations beside the man's head. Aramis couldn't stop his hiss of pain and disappointment as the man ducked back out of sight.

"What's wrong?" Athos asked, the question coming out sharp and alert even as he continued packing the next shot. Aramis could feel the weight of the other man's gaze. He was beginning to think nothing slipped past the man's impressive powers of observation.

"I missed," he answered, trying to turn his grimace into a frown. It wouldn't do to worry the man; there was plenty enough to worry about already. "I wish I hadn't."

"Those are long-range shots for a musket. Too long to be worrying about perfect accuracy. High standards will only get you so far."

"Says the man who clearly doesn't put a finger out of place before considering it first. You know, I once read a book about hypocrisy."

"You read?"

"Poetry mostly. I find the rest a little dry."

They traded muskets and Aramis once again eased into his shot. He scanned the walls for a brown hat but didn't see one. Instead he caught sight of a Frenchman grappling with someone at the top of a ladder. The man fell to his opponent's dagger, but Aramis evened the score and another soldier surged up the ladder to take his place on the walls.

For a brief moment their foothold was established, and then a musket flared from farther along the wall and a line of fire scored across Aramis' cheek as the ball nearly took his head off. Aramis cursed and rolled back, the knuckle of one gloved hand pressing against the sting to staunch a hot dribble of blood.

When Aramis took another look, the man in the brown hat was watching their position and the foothold on the wall was lost. He fell back and cursed again.

Athos put a hand on his shoulder, giving him a once-over look before pushing up on his elbow to peer around their cover and scan the field for himself.

The day wouldn't go their way. That was very clear. It would be back to the trenches and another week or more of boredom and hunger before they would try again.

Aramis felt suddenly very tired. Weary in way he wasn't used to. This was Montauban all over again. He didn't dare think he'd had enough of war; he was born for this, he was never more alive than when he was on the battlefield. And yet, it had been two years of war, and it was perhaps time to admit he had grown tired of it. Tired enough that he took the offered musket with grim sobriety and merely continued in his futile task of changing the tide.

TMTMTM

Athos watched the marksman take up the next gun and noted a change in the man's mood. With a man as high-spirited as Aramis, it wasn't a subtle change, more of a complete reversal, but Athos realized he'd been seeing hints of it for a while already. Something was bothering the marksman, something more than that close call. And indeed, the man was more pale than he had been when they started.

A flutter of unease settled in his chest. Despite himself, he'd been growing fond of his companion. The man was skilled and he didn't lack for wit or courage, nor did he seem to care for comparing one man against another, which was rare indeed. Over time Athos thought he might tire of the man's goodwill and cheer, but all in all it was rather refreshing. Especially in a place such as this.

And too, for a brief moment, he'd thought he'd found a kinship with the man; a thirst for life mirrored one gaze to another and borne of risking it all. When the man had jerked back from the sting of the near miss, Athos had felt a genuine flicker of fear for the man. There was still the lingering sense that their kinship would bloom and die like a cut flower, but for the moment they were mired in this together, and Athos was content with it. Now he just had to ensure the marksman made it off the field in one piece.

With that in mind, Athos began to assess the state of the battlefield as he worked on moving his hands through the motions of priming and reloading. Already he was growing familiar enough with the actions that he could set his mind to something else. What he chose to contemplate first was the fact that it was clear they had lost the field, and now it was simply a matter of time before the retreat.

Was that what had darkened the marksman's mood? No, not wholly, the souring had started sooner, though perhaps it was tipping the scales.

Beside him the marksman was sinking into a deeper state of concentration, his gaze more intense on the walls.

"Come on, you bastard. Show yourself," Aramis muttered.

Athos finished loading one gun and took up the next; Aramis having yet to fire his shot. The rhythm was changing between them. Athos' unease grew.

Around them the roar of battle was subsiding. From the walls nearest them Athos heard a shout and an answering call. He looked around the boulder and spotted a man just as he pointed out their position to a second man.

"Aramis…."

The marksman didn't answer, all of his attention on the distant gate.

"Aramis!"

A musket leveled onto them; Aramis directly in its line of fire…

Athos surged off the ground. No time to set a match, reaching instead for his pistol.

The range was too long.

It couldn't matter.

He cocked the flint as he pushed the gun past his opposite palm, continuing the motion in a sweeping arc to target, aligning the shot and firing in the same motion, the same breath. The gunpowder flared and the pistol bucked in his grip.

The man on the walls flinched as the shot ricocheted off the stone wall just below him, his own shot going wide.

Aramis twisted, swinging his musket around. The third crack of gunfire seemed to confuse the defender and he stiffened in shock before slumping across the top of the walls to hang there, his gun tumbling out of his hands.

The man's companion leaned over the body and motioned for help from farther along the walls.

Aramis pushed to his feet, "Time to go." He handed Athos the smoking musket with a stiff nod of thanks and took up the next.

Athos shoved the pistol back onto his belt and bent to retrieve the last musket, shouldering both. Then they were ducking across the churned field toward the tree line.

A sporadic shot landed at Athos' feet as he ran.

They made it to the trees and looked back to see their own men falling back from the walls, calls of retreat echoing here and there. Aramis aimed around the bole of his tree. A moment later he dropped the musket back to his side and pounded a fist against the bark in frustration. Either he was too far away and felt impotent, or his mark had disappeared.

More men collected on the walls above them.

Athos glanced at Aramis in concern, "I think we need to keep moving."

Aramis nodded, "Go. I'll cover you." He pivoted around the tree to take aim, not waiting to hear Athos' opinion on the subject.

Athos huffed and bolted for the next tree, words like 'over-confident', 'cocky', and 'self-destructive bastard' on the tip of his tongue. Gunfire thundered behind him and someone screamed. He reached the next tree, propped the empty musket against it and took aim with the other, taking his shot as Aramis crossed the open ground to join him. Musket balls tore into the leaf litter around the marksman as he ran.

Aramis gained the tree to Athos' right and leaned heavily against it, his chest heaving and sweat glistening on his brow beneath his hat. The marksman was starting to tire, his face almost grey in the dimming light. Athos was reminded of the thin slop they had eaten before the attack that constituted a meal. If that was standard fare, then weakness from malnourishment was a real threat.

Athos worked on loading the guns while scanning ahead for their next line of cover. For about thirty yards the scattering of trees were young and narrow, their branches devoid of foliage for the coming winter. Nothing presented as suitable protection until they could reach the larger trees beyond.

"I don't think we'll make it across that. Not at this rate."

"I don't think we'll have a choice," Aramis tipped his head toward the walls.

Athos glanced out and felt his stomach roll as he spotted a pair of men lifting a small hand cannon into place. That thing could fire a half pound ball, and at this range it could pepper them with grapeshot. Not good.

"We shouldn't wait around for them to load," Aramis said.

"Agreed."

"Ready?"

Athos arched an eyebrow.

Aramis snorted, "Or not…"


	5. Lee Side

If running toward live artillery was exhilarating, then running away from it was purely terrifying. Facing the guns, Athos had seen the spit of fire and smoke and had known what was hunting him. But with his back to the guns, he had no idea when the shots would come, or if the sudden roar would precede the crushing bite of a cannon ball.

The sharp gaze of the enemy was like a physical weight that drove him forward, urging him to outpace his own steps, pushing him to stumble. Logic told him to keep his head, stay calm and clear of thought. A stumble would lead most men to panic and panic led most men to death.

Branches and low scrub caught at his clothes.

Run. His thoughts narrowed on that one thought. He could barely track the uneven ground beneath his steps where roots shaped the earth. Some steps landed hard and threatened to roll or twist, while others sank heavily into the loam. Athos lost all sense of control, and, for the first time, he truly experienced fear. The roar in his ears drowned out all other sound. If the men on the walls where shooting at them he couldn't hear it.

The marksman, who had been keeping pace beside him, had dropped out of the corner of Athos' vision.

Athos risked a glance back. The man was still on his feet, but his pace had slowed and Athos was quickly leaving him behind. A flash drew Athos' gaze to the walls and he flinched on instinct, his boot catching on something. Rather than reaching to break his fall, he tucked his shoulder into a roll.

Sound returned to him with a sharp crack that might have been breaking bones but was instead the sound of grapeshot blasting the saplings ahead of him to splinters. His momentum carried him to his knees and he struggled with disorientation; his hands fisting into moss as his mind spun in a dozen directions, his shoulder aching fire where the muskets had twisted out of his grip.

A fast assessment catalogued the dull pain of more bruises, but ultimately he was unharmed. Luck had saved him but it wouldn't hold if he stayed on his knees. He had to get up.

A hand slip beneath his arm and urged him on. Athos cast around for the lost weapons, finding one almost beneath his hand, the other a pace behind him. He grabbed the nearest and pushed to his feet. Aramis turned and fired a shot that was more warning than effective.

Athos swallowed the flutter of fear and doubled-back to collect the second gun, feeling his joints protest every action. Gunfire tossed the leaf litter, no more accurate than Aramis' own shot but no less dangerous for it.

Without sparing a breath for speech, Aramis led them onward. His sharp gaze had turned purposeful and Athos sensed the marksman had something in mind. As they ran on, Athos felt the excruciating turn of time. The cogent part of his awareness imagined the actions of cleaning the hot barrel of a cannon, swabbing the iron of burning embers and residue, then the loading of powder and shot, tamping them tight against the butt. A minute. Maybe more. Then calculating distance and taking aim.

Now. The gun should be ready now.

The tree line loomed ahead of them. They weren't yet within its shadow or its relative safety.

Suddenly Aramis veered to the right. Athos followed without question and the sight of a fallen tree made everything clear. The promise of shelter spurred every last ounce of speed from his limbs and he leapt over the log a double-pace ahead of Aramis. Athos dropped tight into shelter just as the marksman rolled over the wood to escape the angry swarm of iron shot that should have torn them to shreds. The zip and crack of more hunting bullets continued for a beat before all of it fell away to silence.

Athos and Aramis lay pressed to the ground, head to head, both of them drawing air in greedy gulps. A slight hitch to Aramis' breaths suggested the marksman had drawn past his reserves in their last mad dash.

If this was what escaping from the field was like, it was little wonder so few fusiliers remained.

"How do you fare?"Athos asked, as soon as he could spare air for such.

"Hmm?" the marksman's eyes had shuttered closed and they sprang open again, "I'm fine."

"Truly?"

"I'm still in one piece. The alternative is more than a possibility out here, so I'd say fine is a suitable assessment, wouldn't you?"

Athos wasn't entirely convinced. He glanced in the direction of the trenches. His view was obscured by the copse of trees that promised shelter still twenty yards' distance across cleared ground. The cannon would be pre-occupied with loading for a moment, they had a slim window to cover distance if they had the energy, but he wasn't sure the marksman would manage just yet.

"You know, your friend threatened me if I didn't bring you back in one piece," Athos mused softly.

"Interesting. He's never done that before," Aramis frowned, "He must think you're more capable than most."

"More capable of leaving you behind maybe."

"You sell yourself short."

"Do I? Either I seem like someone capable of making decisions on my own or I look like someone who leaves people behind. As far as you know, both estimations could be accurate. Not much to sell short there."

"The former definitely. As far as the later, you brought this up so you tell me. If you wish to leave me behind, then do so." The marksman tipped his head toward the tree line, "The evening is still young. You owe me nothing. In fact, if you hold tally, I believe I owe it to you not to slow you down."

Athos huffed, "I'm trying to tell you I'm not leaving you behind."

Aramis snorted, "Well, you have a very strange way of saying it."

"I want it to be clear that I'm not doing this because of your over-protective friend."

There was definite laughter in the marksman's tone as he said, "So to clarify. Your logical assessment tells you it would be better to leave me behind, but you resent your own adherence to logic while simultaneously refusing to accept the implications or appearances that you might be motivated by another man's threat. I'd say his estimation of you was accurate indeed, only I still hold that you sell yourself short."

"Forgive me for resenting his judgments, no matter how true they might be."

"Older, wiser, and far more stubborn. You might actually survive this. That would be refreshing."

Athos twisted his head to glance at the marksman, "Coming from you that was surprisingly fatalistic."

"You see something often enough…"

"How many partners have you had exactly?"

"In this conflict, in the last two months? Four. Not so many that I can't remember their names or their faces. Not all of them died out here on the field. It was easier when my companions were fusiliers in their own right," he said the last part softly.

"Because you could trust them to know their profession."

"Hm, just so. After that they were little better than farmhands. Until you, that is." Aramis flashed a smile, "I'll consider myself lucky."

Athos grunted, "It seems a rule, not an exception, that Lady Luck has a soft spot where you're concerned. Must be those devilish good looks."

"Seems you don't do half so bad yourself…" The man's smile turned into a grin.

"If that holds true, then maybe we'll both get out of here."

"Don't be too concerned. All we have to do is wait and move under cover of darkness." Aramis glanced at the flat grey sky, "Won't be more than a few hours at this rate."

"That's the plan? Lie here like two corpses until dark?"

The marksman lifted his hat and tilted it across his face. "It's a perfect opportunity to get some uninterrupted sleep."

Athos shifted; the arm he had pinned beneath him already starting to tingle. He managed to shimmy enough to roll partially onto his back while staying in the shelter of the log. He had a feeling the only sleep he'd be getting would be on the basis of one body part at a time. He twisted his head to comment as such, but he let the words go unspoken.

The marksman was already asleep, his tall frame slack as if all the previous tension had bled into the ground beneath him. Now that was a skill…, Athos quirked his lips ruefully, one he knew he didn't possess without the aid of copious amounts of wine.

Athos stared up at the darkening sky and mentally prepared himself for a long wait. It took him a while to catch his thoughts as they churned and roiled on the day's events.

It was strange to think that he'd ridden into camp with the new recruits only that morning. Had it really been a single afternoon? It felt as if a year of his life had passed. So many moments and images burned into his mind; enough to fill a year's worth of time, surely.

He wondered fleetingly if he had made the right choice to come here. Would he have been better off staying and marrying Catherine? He frowned. Even after all of this, the answer was no.

What was it about Catherine that he disliked so much? They had known each other since they were children. Surely a happy marriage was built on the foundation of shared experience… And yet he knew her all too well, had seen past her regal and elegant exterior, past the furnishings of wealth and privilege. He had watched her scorn the servants and villagers as if they were little better than flies around a feast. Never once had he seen her consider another's needs over her own. Marrying to that, condoning it by such obligation, would be to cast aside his moral ethics. It was easier to kill men in the name of his king than to imagine choosing a life where he was shackled against his own principles.

Was it wrong that he was more at ease killing a man than mistreating him? Perhaps. But that he couldn't know. When it came time, God could decide his sins. Until then, he was happier here than there. That would do for now.

As he worked through his thoughts, the air around him thickened and calmed. The difference went unnoticed at first until a moist earthen smell rose from the ground. The moisture in the sky called to the moisture in the earth, kin to kin, and they moved to meet each other.

It began as a soft sound. Tap. Tap. And then softly it began to rain.


	6. A Different Kind of Shelter

The rain was gentle but steady. The occasional heavy drop mixed with the rest and sounded with a loud ping against Athos' helmet. He was glad his overcoat was a thick oil tanned leather, but even still, it wouldn't take long to grow miserable. They weren't suitably equipped for this, neither of them had cloaks with them.

Athos twisted and reached up to tap Aramis on the shoulder. The marksman tensed and then held still.

"Rain," Athos whispered, knowing the other man was likely finding his bearings.

Aramis tipped his hat back onto his head and glanced around. "It seems Gerome was off on his prediction."

"Barring the timing, he was right on its imminence." Athos rolled onto his chest and carefully pushed up to take a look over the top of their log.

"How's the visibility?" Aramis asked.

"Diminished." The rain was providing a shifting curtain that obscured the walls in grey. Athos could just make out the silhouettes of the men stationed near them. Unfortunately, he couldn't tell if the men were watching their position or not. "If we move, they might still see us." Athos ducked back down and shifted around until he could prop one shoulder against the damp wood. "We could stay; wait until dark like we agreed. Though neither of us are particularly equipped for this weather."

Aramis drew up his musket and blew on the slow match to keep the end lit. He settled the gun across his chest and cupped his hand over the ember to keep it dry. "Once you're wet enough, in the trench or out of it, it won't matter."

"Then you'd rather stay?"

"I'm just saying you shouldn't expect much of an improvement," he answered, his words coming out heavy with tiredness.

"Ah," Athos glanced down at the marksman, "Well I, for one, would be happier with a cloak. I'd say you could use one too. Wet is one thing. Cold and wet is another. Summer is waning. As night falls, so too will the temperature."

Aramis let out a sigh, "And here I was having such a nice dream. Alright, let's get to that tree line."

Athos reached for the spare muskets, "If we stay crouched and move slow, maybe they won't see us."

"Either that or they'll have more time to aim," Aramis quipped.

Athos arched an eyebrow, "You'd rather make a run for it?"

"No, then they'll definitely see us. We'll reserve that for when they start shooting."

"Sounds exciting," Athos said dryly.

Aramis grinned, "Always."

"Well let's not make it easy for them," Athos tipped his head down the length of the log. If they went farther along, they'd come up where their enemies weren't expecting.

The marksman followed his line of sight, a frown clearing on sudden understanding, "Good idea." He reoriented himself in the direction of their new heading and began pulling himself across the ground in a slow and efficient crawl.

Athos scrubbed water off his face and braced both muskets in the crook of his elbows as he rolled onto his belly and followed suit.

He quickly discovered moving like this across wet ground was uncomfortable at best. Soggy leaf litter caught on his belts and he was constantly trying to stop his hilts from tangling with loose twigs. Water dripped down the back of his neck any time he turned his head and soon his pants were soaked through. Based on the occasional hiss from the man ahead of him, the marksman wasn't finding it any more pleasant than he was.

Finally they reached the end of their log and Aramis gathered himself into a low crouch. He was breathing heavily and Athos could see the faint white puff of each breath in the air. And indeed, the moment they stopped moving, Athos could feel the first hints of chill following the moisture through his clothes.

Athos pushed to his feet, mindful of staying low. He glanced back as he shouldered the spare muskets. The dark shapes of the men on the walls didn't change or move. That was a good sign at least.

Together, they moved quietly toward the trees; both of them hunched to blend with the ground, and Aramis picking a path through the young saplings to keep the view from the walls broken.

Athos was on high alert for any sound, any shout. The rain continued to ring off his helmet, and after a time it began to drive him mad. He wasn't sure the narrow brim, which was barely doing its job of keeping the rain out of his eyes or off his collar, made it worth it. About the only thing it was good for was keeping the top of his head dry — that it did with annoying efficiency.

By the time they reached the first sizable tree, the tension had coiled through all of Athos' limbs and he couldn't feel the cold hanging in the air.

Finally they left the break behind and a narrow game trail presented itself.

With each tree they passed, the marksman loosened his posture until they were simply walking through the rain. He continued to blow life into his slow match, but even that had lost its sense of urgent need. They weren't technically out of the woods but Athos got the sense that they were nearing safety.

Two dozen paces along the path and they encountered a man leaning against the bole of a tree, a black broad brimmed hat hiding his face from view. Aramis passed the man without even looking at him.

Athos stopped, surprised. How had the marksman not seen him? Then Athos realized the man he was looking at was actually dead. He glanced back at the marksman; perhaps he'd expected the dead man to be here … a customary view.

Athos moved to continue, but stopped again when he realized he was walking away from an answer to a problem. He turned back to the dead man and leaned the muskets against the tree. He crouched beside the corpse to carefully lift the hat off the dead man's head.

The face beneath was tilted toward the sunken chest, light brown hair matted across his scalp, skin grey and blue with advancing death and decay.

Athos brushed the interior brim across his knee. It was a decent hat and it would serve him better than the helmet had.

"Jean Claude took a bullet near the walls. That was as far as he got."

Athos looked up, the marksman was watching him.

Feeling instantly foolish and guilty, Athos leaned forward to put the hat back, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"Keep it. He's dead. What good does it do him?" Aramis' words were firm.

Athos frowned, the hat still in his hand. "If he was your friend…"

"I won't begrudge you that hat Athos. Take it. I'm sure you'll make good use of it."

Athos glanced at the marksman, confused by the hint of anger in the man's tone, confused to find it not directed at him, "Did you know him well?"

"I knew him well enough to know he'd rather rot in the trees then be buried in a trench. I respected him enough to let him have his wish even though it never sat well with me."

"He chose this?" Athos asked in surprise.

"Living in the trenches can do strange things to a man's mind. But to be honest, it was the tunnels that instilled in him a fear of the earth, of being buried. Dead or alive. But that is neither here nor there. He has his wish and I've left him be. Let's keep moving. We've almost made it back."

Athos unbuckled his helmet and lifted it off his head, feeling an instant relief as the weight and pressure eased. He settled the broad hat into place, pleased to find that the brim would shelter a portion of his shoulders as well. He debating leaving the helmet behind but decided it wasn't too much effort to return with it and there was little point in losing perfectly serviceable equipment if it could be helped.

Helmet in one hand and muskets once again braced against his shoulder with the other, Athos rejoined Aramis on the path. The marksman was staring absently at the ground, gun cradled in his arms and water dripping off one corner of his hat, the red streak of blood across his cheek standing out bold as the only patch of color in the grey. Around them the forest was gathering darkness, the trees running black with rain. Fog patches settled between the dark trunks, thin and tremulous as if they were otherworldly spirits struggling for purchase in a world of the living.

"Aramis."

The marksman glanced up and nodded. He turned away and continued on their path.

Athos sensed his companion withdrawing further into his thoughts, the distance yawning wide and worrisome. The peaks and valleys of the man's emotions were dizzying in their heights and depths. It was dangerously compelling. Athos forced himself to mentally step aside from his nagging concern. The speed at which he'd grown attached to this man was truly frightening. If he didn't put up some barriers of his own, he might never be free of him. He would be tied to his fate, to be moved and controlled at the tug of a string. Athos couldn't afford such an attachment.

Not now. Not ever.


	7. Dangerous Politics

The gloom of dusk was fully established by the time they reached the edge of the woods.

Aramis' pace slowed and he stopped at the perimeter, crouching against a final tree to scan across the short stretch of open ground and the mounded earthen bulwark of the trench at its center. Athos joined him and quickly recognized that he was looking at the southernmost tip of the trenchworks. Here the earth was mounded high enough to offer the bulk of the protection, and Athos realized the nearby swamp would be preventing the trench from being dug to any amount of depth. The tactical importance of this spot was instantly clear. If an enemy sortie happened along this forested stretch, this defensive front was vital to prevent the flanking of their line. That embankment in the center would defend the entirety of the trenchline to the north. He wondered if the enemy had yet dared test it.

Aramis put a hand to his mouth and whistled a series of trilling birdcalls. The endless patter of rain stretched unbroken after the sound.

When no signal returned, Aramis seemed to sag against the tree in resigned irritation. He glanced at Athos as if preparing to answer for his actions and the delay. Athos had no such questions; he could see for himself the folly of brazenly approaching a dugout that was designed to defend against enemies coming out of the trees on foot. Friend or foe was hard to judge at the best of times, but in the rain and the dim…

Aramis repeated his call.

After a moment of muffled silence, a single hand rose into view and waved once.

The marksman huffed and then they were moving again, creeping carefully across the churned and sodden ground. Athos' heart found its way into his throat and he breathed through the tension. They were almost back into safety and yet the thick atmosphere of waiting and watching was hard to escape.

Together they maneuvered through the sharpened stakes that bristled along the outer rim of the bank. They slid down the opposite side to land in a foot of muddy water that had gathered on the trench floor.

Athos muttered a curse as the brackish water gushed over the tops of his boots.

Hands appeared to pull him onto the boards that were inset into the trench to keep the defenders above the waterline. His helper grinned at his obvious disgust with the state of his boots. The man clapped him silently on the shoulder and turned back to continue his watch.

On the other side of the brown water, Aramis was leaned against the wall with his head tilted in a soft conversation with another man at his side. Athos didn't catch any of the words before Aramis was moving again and motioning for him to follow.

A third man stationed at the post unfurled from a place against the wall and gestured at Athos with a toothless smile. The man wore no hat or helmet and he pointed a crooked finger at the helmet Athos was carrying. Athos handed it over, thinking the man would wear it. The soldier bobbed his head in thanks and instead planted it with a solid thunk, bowl-up, in the mounded earth at the top of the trench. Athos frowned—

"Athos," Aramis hissed from farther along the trench. He motioned again.

Athos left things as they were and followed the marksman.

Using half sunken boards and rocks, they zigzagged their way across the puddles, and sometimes they slogged through the mud when neither were available. Their path was hidden by deepening shadow and it was only because Aramis led the way that Athos knew where to step. They encountered more sentries and lookouts on the way, most of them huddled miserably into oiled cloaks, the water dripping off their faces and beading on their shoulders.

Now that he was wise to it, Athos was surprised to see a few more helmets sitting upturned and wedged into place along the trench. When he past one that was partially full of water, he suddenly understood: water collection. Athos snorted. Perhaps that was a better use for them in any case.

As they made their way deeper into the trenches, the number of men they past increased, and occasionally they maneuvered around a low glowing brazier of coals that offered some warmth and a faint pool of light on their path. The energy in these parts was very different from the hushed weariness.

Around the coals, men drank from mugs or wineskins and laughed loudly, jostling each other or leaning together for support. The rain hissed and spat against the coals.

Aramis didn't slow even as a few soldiers called for him to stay.

They were leaving the amber glow of the third brazier behind them when a man stepped out of the shadows without warning and directly into Athos' path. Athos twisted to avoid the collision, but the man pushed forward with deliberate force, clipping his shoulder and throwing him off balance.

Athos crashed onto one knee. Water splashed up and down his front.

He dropped the guns and surged back to his feet. He whirled and firmed a hand on his hilt, knowing full well the man had intended to land him in the mud.

The big man was instantly familiar. Gilles. "You should watch where you're going." The scar on the man's cheek rippled as he smiled, "Someone might get the wrong idea and think you meant to do that."

"I believe those words are mine," Athos said dryly.

"Are they now? Well I claim them as mine, so what are you going to do about it?"

"I could fight you for them, but you might regret it."

"Oh! We have a fighter on our hands."

"It would appear that's exactly what we have, Gilles." A second man stepped out of the shadows. He stood at Gilles' shoulder, noticeably shorter with a hawk-like nose that was perceptible even in the dark. "Most interesting."

Gilles took a step forward and Athos drew his blade an inch before Aramis suddenly filled the void between them.

Aramis held up his right hand, the fingers of the other hand bracing the gun on his shoulder clearly free of the trigger, "Come gentlemen, haven't we had enough fighting for one day? I'd say we're all pretty weary of it. There's no need for this to go any further."

"Ah, that's right, Aramis' new powder mule. And he survived the day no less," the hawk-nosed man crossed his arms and Athos felt his sharp gaze as he examined him beyond Aramis' shoulder.

"Let's go Athos, we have somewhere to be." Aramis turned his back on the men and started walking.

Athos let his gaze harden on the hawk-nosed man. Gilles leered but didn't make another move toward him.

By Gerome's estimation, Gilles was the muscle man, a bully and a pawn, which meant somewhere there was a man playing a game of chess. Athos would bet a bottle of good wine that this hawk-nosed man was just such a man.

"Athos!" Aramis said, his voice sharp on a warning.

Athos let his blade slide back into its sheath. He carefully bent to retrieve the fallen guns, then he backed away a double pace before turning to follow Aramis. His blood sang in his veins with unspent energy.

"You shouldn't provoke them," Aramis said when they were out of earshot.

"That's hardly a fair assessment of the circumstance," Athos frowned at the marksman, not sure if that was meant to be a joke and realizing it was not.

"Well don't provoke them _further_. They'll take it as encouragement."

"I can handle them if it comes to it. Gilles is big but he lacks finesse, and I would argue that the other man isn't much of a fighter."

"No Athos, you won't handle it, you'll leave it alone."

"Why, Aramis? Tell me why." Athos grabbed Aramis by the arm to stop him.

The marksman hissed and drew up short. He pulled out of Athos' grip and glared at him, "Because they don't play by the rules and that makes them dangerous. And frankly, I'd rather not have to find another man to watch my back."

The marksman's vehement reply caught Athos off guard. His instinctive reaction was to meet the man's fire with his own, "You've done well enough replacing four men already, I'm sure you'll do just fine."

Aramis tensed and silence settled between them, both of them glaring and not backing down. The rain continued to fall, trickling off the walls to pool in the mud around their boots.

Finally Aramis sighed and turned away, "Do what you want."

Athos watched the marksman's receding back, realizing he'd inadvertently found a wedge to drive between them and all at once angry that he wasn't happy with the result.

Damn…

His sudden regret was proof that it was too late for barriers and defenses, the man had already won his foothold, and all that remained for Athos was retreat or surrender.

Athos followed after the man, deciding for the moment that he was content to stubbornly refuse that revelation altogether.


	8. Back to the Beginning

A/N: Hi everyone! Massive apologies for the huge delay with this story. I'm still alive (if you were wondering...) and I'm still eager to finish this story. I'm hoping the rough times are fading away behind me and that I'll have a few more chapters for you guys soon! Thank you so very much for all your wonderful support!

Athos let the distance yawn between them as he followed a few paces behind the marksman.

The cold trickle of rain had become inconsequential to the lingering heat of his anger and frustration. For the moment, he was content with the boost of energy if afforded him, but he was sorely looking forward to a flat, preferably dry, place to rest his head. The thick water splashing around his boots wasn't lending him much hope of finding either in his future.

The depressing weariness of that thought was almost thick enough to choke on. Perhaps the men caught out on the field were the lucky ones, unless of course they were dead.

Athos was beginning to see the appeal of the lee of that log, weather proof cloak or no, it was far dryer than the bottom of this trench. What was it Aramis had said to Gerome? "If we die, we won't have to live through tomorrow's rain."

How did anyone survive more than a week of this?

Athos lifted his head to glance at the man ahead of him.

Clearly you survived by being skilled and lucky on the days that counted, avoiding disease by the grace of God, and by having a sense of humor through all the boredom between. And for the average man? Well, you wouldn't have to live through the rain, so perhaps you could consider yourself lucky indeed.

They rounded a corner and Athos realized he recognized where they were. The trench widened and the next jig in the corridor opened onto the alcove where they had shared in breakfast that afternoon.

A small shadow detached itself from the wall and bolted toward Aramis with a joyous cry. "Aramis!"

Athos recognized the voice and stature of the errand boy.

At the call, more shadows shifted and revealed themselves as men taking shelter where they could along the outer edge of the trench; their backs to the earth to stand defense against the chill night air.

Aramis rested a hand briefly on the boy's shoulder. "Stephan. Use that boundless energy of yours and take these muskets back to the armory." He motioned Athos forward so the boy could take the guns from him.

"Aramis, Lieutenant Bachard said you're to report to the captain's tent when you've returned. He said for me to tell you that, if I saw you," the boy said as he awkwardly juggled the guns that were almost as long as he was tall.

"He can't have meant now," the marksman said in weary answer. The droop in his shoulders intensified, and Athos got the sense that, for however exhausted he felt, Aramis was barely managing to stay on his feet.

"That's what he said. But maybe I didn't see you. You know. Until morning like." The boy said it delicately, his eyes darting to the other shadows of men listening to the conversation. There was an uncomfortable shifting that happened around them.

"Those bastards weren't out there all day like us. Let them wait," said a low voice in the darkness. There was a quiet grumble of assent.

Aramis glanced in the direction of the speaker but didn't address the harsh words. He turned back to the boy. "They'll know the moment you turn in those guns, and that's your job now, so you'd best hop to it and leave the rest to me. Where's Gerome?"

The boy jerked his chin to the opposite end of the alcove. "Over there. Sleeping it off. There was no wine tonight. You know how he is."

"Yeah, a lousy drunk so I guess that's better for the rest of us."

That elicited a few chuckles from the men around them, but Athos didn't miss the deepening frown beneath the sheltering brim of Aramis' hat.

The marksman pressed forward, and the boy took that as his cue to hustle off on his errand.

As he followed behind Aramis, one of the non-descript shadows clapped Athos on the shoulder. The surprise contact almost made him leap out of his skin. His sword hand flexed on air, and he realized his limbs were too tired to reflexively reach for his sword hilt. That thought had his heart pounding in his ears as he was gripped by a paralyzing terror; the likes of which he'd never experienced before.

His reaction went unnoticed by the men around him who crowded forward, offering flashing grins and congratulatory words that he couldn't hear.

The moment ended as legs that had grown accustom to walking on their own for the last hour moved him through the crowd of their own accord. With the action, the terror faded and Athos found a small measure of control return to him. Even so, he was out of breath when he reached Aramis' side where the marksman was crouched in front of a cloaked figure huddled against the wall.

The marksman studied his friend for a moment, seemingly loath to wake him. His internal debate resolved itself when the other man jerked awake on a harsh-sounding cough.

Aramis reached out his free hand to brace the man's shoulder. He had yet to relinquish his grip on his rifle, and Athos got the sense that that wouldn't happen for some time yet. Wherever they ended up sleeping tonight, Athos could imagine the marksman cradling the gun until morning.

"Gerome," Aramis said quietly.

"Oh, Aramis, you're back." Gerome blinked and scrubbed a hand over his gaunt face. "Finally slept through the night. That's one for the books."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Aramis said, "but we're back early."

"Damn, I was hoping it just felt short."

"That is a nasty cough, my friend. When did that start?" Aramis asked with a veiled tone of urgency.

Gerome ignored Aramis' question and turned his attention to Athos. "I see you brought him back in one piece and just as annoying as ever. I'd get up to shake your hand and offer you a proper congratulations, but I've been here just long enough to dry out the boards beneath me, so you'll forgive me for staying put."

Athos managed a tired shrug. "From what I've seen of this weather, a dry spot is worth more than a handshake, so I'll take no offense."

Gerome turned back to Aramis. "You know, I think you're right about this one. I'd say he's a keeper."

Aramis glanced away briefly, and Athos too felt the echo of their recent disagreement hanging in the air between them.

Fate, it seemed, was determined to throw them together.

"You didn't answer my question," Aramis said, his gaze turning sharp and probing.

Gerome huffed. "That's because it's not worth answering. I'll be fine with a decent round of sleep. It's what both of you should be considering for yourselves. The sooner you leave me be, the sooner that happens for all of us."

"All right. But this conversation isn't over. We'll see how you are in the morning."

"You'd make a handsome nursemaid, Aramis. I'm sure of it."

Aramis answered with a snort of disgust. "Be careful what you wish for."

"Yes, ma'am."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Got some sleep."

He made a move as if to stand, and Athos offered a hand almost on instinct; catching his prediction of his companion's need through the fog in his brain only after he'd taken action as if it were all happening in third-person.

The strange third-party view turned into mild amusement when Aramis took the offered help before his face flashed with his own surprise.

They made a strange pair indeed.

With Aramis back on his feet, they reached a consensus to ignore the moment by not saying anything. Gerome's gaze flicked between them in mild confusion, clearly sensing the tension but watching the action tell a different story. Athos sighed and wiped his eyes with a hand that felt weighted like pot metal.

Aramis gave Gerome a curt nod, and, with an air of heavy resignation, he broke off and led the way once again through the trenches.

TMTMTM

To say blood was on Captain Jardis' mind was an understatement. A lot of it had been spilt across the field that day, and it was on his conscience. But even that was an over-simplification of his thoughts.

He had spent the last hours writing the letters that now sat on one corner of his desk. The red wax seals each like a splot of metaphorical blood caught in frozen eternity, locking away the devastating contents of each letter: Jardis' sharp penmanship therein explaining the loss of a husband, father, son, to those who were left to receive the news. Tales of spilled blood destined for flesh and blood kin. In some cases, tales of bloodlines severed and ended.

Jardis had written many such letters in his career.

It never got easier.

And so he sat staring at the full glass of red wine before him, his fingertips steepled together before his chin, watching the amber light of the candle flicker in the depths of the glass.

This too would pass. At some point, he would manage to draw his gaze back to the field map spread across his desk. Only then would he be able to see past the blood on his conscience and prepare for tomorrow. Then finally, he would drink his wine and no longer resent its color.

The candle wavered in the thick humid air as the canvas door to his tent was swept aside.

"Sir?" his aide said.

Jardis waved the man forward, welcoming the interruption.

The man stepped in and to the side, as if reluctant to approach. Perhaps Jardis' mood was palpable.

The aide gave a half bow. "One of your fusiliers has returned. He is reporting as requested."

"Good. Send him in."

The aide dipped his head and did as instructed, ducking out and then holding the canvas aside to let in two dripping wet figures, their clothing dark with rain, boots splattered with mud.

The chill air came with them, spilling across the floor and sputtering the candle into momentary shadow.

The light grew again, and grey and black hats tilted up to reveal Aramis and the new recruit, Athos; the man who had chosen to forsake his bloodline to fight as a simple soldier.

"Captain," Aramis said, nodding his head in acknowledgement. His voice was filled with a latent weariness; his face grey even in the warm amber lighting.

Both men looked ready to collapse, each fighting their physical exhaustion in unique ways. Aramis curved inward, head low, shoulders slumped forward, arms held rigidly at his sides. Athos, by contrast, held himself upright at the hips, one foot planted firmly beneath him, the other loose to one side for balance, hands braced casually on his belt.

Water dripped steadily from their sodden clothes.

Seeing them together in contrast allowed Jardis to see the true cost their current camp conditions were taking on his men in the field. It was clear Athos' fresh reserve of strength was serving him well, while the pale weariness of the marksman beside him stood out in stark relief. The revelation filled him with a sense of dread.

Jardis let his gaze run over them a moment more, reading other things in the distance they stood apart, yet the way they clearly stood together, unconsciously covering blind spots and weaknesses without even being aware they were doing so.

The conscious distance they chose to stand apart told Jardis that, if they were more aware and less exhausted, none of the other body language would be visible. Their instincts toward each other were strong, but they were wary, resistant. The physical space like a chasm between them — a fissure of their own choosing, and one that might stand forever for it.

Jardis set both hands to his desk and stood. "Gentlemen. Well met. It's good to see you made it back in one piece. I wasn't expecting to see you until morning."

"The rain provided the cover we needed. I'm hoping it offered the same for others," the marksman said, his words deliberate.

Jardis knew what he wanted to ask. In answer he said, "I've had no word from Jacque on the north side of the field. Remi made it back with the main body of men, but Verne is dead."

Aramis hung his head.

Athos glanced at him, a subtle shift in his stance telling Jardis that he too was aware of his companion's teetering exhaustion.

"There's a tent prepared for you. You will rest there tonight and return to the trenches in the morning when you are recovered. And no, I will not accept any argument from you, Aramis." He held up his hand to forestall the marksman's protest. "Both of you have earned a proper rest. That's an order." Jardis reached for his glass and took a deliberate swallow.

The marksman clenched a fist at his side. "And what of the other men who took part in the attack? Did they not earn it also?"

There was a reason Aramis was popular with the regular troops, and it wasn't only on account of his wit and charm.

"Aramis. I said no arguments. Allocating limited resources is my job. Yours is to follow orders. You will take the rest that you so desperately need, and, while you're at it, in the morning you will have that shoulder seen to."

At his last words, Athos' eyes shot to the marksman, the concern both instinctive and blatant.

Jardis met Aramis' angry glare. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Aramis ground out.

"Good. My aide is waiting outside to show you to your tent. You're dismissed, gentlemen. Oh, and Athos…"

The man turned back as Jardis called to him.

Jardis grabbed the wineskin from the corner of his desk. He tossed it for the other man to catch and then turned back to study the map that showed a battle they should be winning. One that, in truth, they were losing.

Jardis drained his glass of wine. It had been a very long day indeed. It was time he took his own advice and got some rest. Perhaps tomorrow would dawn a better day.

Perhaps they would get the supplies they were promised.

Jardis snorted. And perhaps their cannons would turn to solid gold overnight.

He wetted his thumb and forefinger and snuffed the dying flame.


	9. Old Wounds

Aramis stalked out of the tent and barely acknowledged the aide that rushed to lead the way down the thoroughfare. Within a few steps, his anger stuttered and died on a wave of pure exhaustion. He kept pace only because he was loathe to give in.

The aide led them past fires which dotted the rainy darkness. Shadowy shapes of men huddled around the hissing flames for warmth and forced camaraderie. Their hushed chatter and occasional over-loud laughter were distant islands in a sea of dim and sodden tents. The dirt paths that linked the sporadic fires had turned into a slippery quagmire, trampled by men and horses.

"An injury, Aramis?" Athos hissed from beside him.

Aramis didn't bother to glance at his companion. He pitched his voice low so it wouldn't carry to the man in front of them. "It's of no concern. Most especially not a concern of yours."

"If I'm supposed to watch your back, I'd say it's of concern," Athos said dryly.

Aramis heaved a tired sigh. "I'm wet and cold and very tired, Athos. I'd just as soon lie down in the mud, but since there's a dry bedroll in my immediate future that's where I'll be. If you want to ponder how this arrangement works, go ahead. I leave you to the task. Frankly, I'm too tired to care."

"So, you'll see to this injury in the morning then? And if it festers through the night, so be it?"

Aramis turned to square off against him. "Athos, you know nothing of it."

"Then I say again, explain it to me." Athos stood his ground, no half step back to gain space between them, no tightening of muscles in preparation, instead the simple calm confidence of superiority. If this man wasn't of noble birth, Aramis would eat his own hat.

"It's of no concern, Athos, because there's nothing to be done for it."

The other man narrowed his gaze. His sharp observations of the world around him were starting to wear on Aramis like citrus juice in a cut on his fingers.

"And that was a physician's opinion?"

"Around here, they're little better than butchers. I may as well be considered a physician when all one needs to know how to do is chop off limbs." The words left his mouth without any of the heat he'd intended for them. Perhaps he was too wet and cold even for that.

He turned to follow the aide who was doing a fine job of ignoring that his charges had fallen behind. He half expected Athos to linger in the darkness behind him but the squelch of boots proved him wrong.

Is that what he wanted? To have the man leave him be? He knew that's what he said with his words and his actions. Logically he knew that would be easiest. And yet he also knew it was against his own nature.

Finally, the aide stopped and motioned them to a large tent at the end of a row. Without a word, the man left, tilting his head against the rain as he ducked away.

Aramis slowed and stopped at the edge of the darkness. He ignored the ever present attention of his new partner and the handful of men around the fire, his gaze drifting instead in the direction of the frontlines. The distance was hidden by the rain, indiscernible and left to the imaginings of shadowed minds. The cloying damp and cold seemed to turn all attention inward, urging its victims to succumb to a maze of their own thoughts. Echoing a darkness back.

Aramis considered himself a cheerful person and took pride in the fact that very few things truly fazed him. He had come to rely on that over the past years, seeing first hand that a darkness of soul could rot a man through until he was a shell of himself without a will to live for the next day and the hardships therein.

Even in the darkest moments, life had a way of struggling on, God providing glimmers of beauty and peace. Yet in the veiled darkness of this night, Aramis found himself struggling to stay clear of heart.

He wasn't sure if the pain he was feeling was real anymore. Perhaps it was simply a physical manifestation of the ache in his soul.

He knew what haunted him, had wrestled it on more than one occasion. It was why he sought the company of others, to keep at bay the fear that he would find himself alone, that he would wake to find that he was the only one left. It was a fear that had steadily grown since he was left behind at L'ile de Re, exacerbated at each turn by the loss of partners and comrades in the field.

The man currently standing with silence and patience beside him was a salve and a knife. The camaraderie and trust was exactly what Aramis yearned for, but he knew it would twist against him in the end.

In that way, he knew his wounds would never heal.

His newest companion uncorked the wineskin he had been carrying since the captain's tent and passed it to him.

Without a word to even question its origin, Aramis accepted the offering and took a long swallow before handing it back. Gerome would be sore to learn he had missed it. The thought of his friend sleeping at this very moment in the mud of the trenches gave Aramis an irrational urge to leave the promise of dry warmth behind. But he wasn't entirely foolhardy, he knew his limits well enough, if barely, to judge that he wouldn't make the walk back without collapsing outright. It was long past time for sleep. He urged his feet to carry him just a little bit farther and found his way toward the promise of dry oblivion.

Behind him, Athos took a swallow of wine and chose to linger in the rain alone.

TMTMTM

Athos took another swallow of wine, his mind numb and empty as he stared after the marksman. The haze of drizzling rain shifted around him, flickering with the glow of the nearby fire and the shadowed men standing around it.

Not apt to standing idle even on the brink of exhaustion, Athos' mind conjured the image of the captain's field map where it had laid spread across the table, the edges weighted down by an ink pot and a goblet of red wine. Athos had found himself absently studying it as they stood before the captain's assessing scrutiny. He remembered thinking that the map told a different story than the one he felt he had experienced over the course of the day. It had been an intriguing mystery; one he had turned over in his mind for a breath until his thoughts had scattered upon learning the marksman was sporting a hidden injury.

Much about the marksman's increasing weakness had become clear in that moment, pieces falling together to form an understanding through the myriad observations he had catalogued through the afternoon.

His heated inquiries about his companion's wounds had tumbled from his mouth without the careful checks and balances that had been schooled into him from such a young age. He regretted his outburst if only because it once again proved that he had grown to care for the man despite their short time together. It was ridiculous and foolhardy, illogical in the worst sense, and yet he seemed hardly able to fight it. Perhaps it was simply easier to admit defeat and consider this man an unlikely friend.

Athos felt his lips twist in their own expression of disgust.

As a child, Athos had made friends with a boy from the village. His father had cautioned against it, but Athos had learned early the meaning of headstrong. It was a stubbornness he had come to regret in some regards.

As boys they barely had a care to wealth and opportunity; they each liked horses and open fields, the wind in their hair, and a good tree to climb, or fresh apples off the stem. Between his lessons, Athos would sneak away to run amok with his friend, returning breathless and barely in time for his fencing tutelage in the late afternoon.

At age eight, the boy started working the fields and still their differences were inconsequential. Then slowly, Athos would find a change in his friend, a sidelong glance that spoke of hunger and need, of jealous yearning. Athos snuck fresh bread from the kitchen and still the looks continued, followed then by snide comments, until one of his tutors made note and took the rod to the boy for his disrespect. The bruises bloomed across the boy's face for weeks, and afterward he refused to look Athos in the eye.

Thinking to make amends, Athos decided to give his friend his favorite hunting crossbow. His friend rebuked him, eyes wide and fearful. Hurt by the rejection, Athos pushed the other boy into the dirt and stormed off.

It was only later, when his father explained that if the boy had taken the gift he would've been hung as a thief, that Athos truly understood what it meant to be the son of a lord and the friend of a peasant. It was a position he told himself he would never find himself in again. Although it was absurd to expect the marksman to know or understand any of it; Athos was, after all, here under the pretence of plainer heritage.

He took another draw of wine, feeling the rush of alcohol in the lightness of his skull. It wouldn't take much to be drunk in this state. Perhaps that was an oblivion worth striving for. He wasn't sure how long he had been standing there. Nor was he able to evaluate the validity of his thoughts. The numb edges of his exhaustion played at the corners of his mind, memory and self-reproach bending like a maze through which he wandered. He tossed the next mouthful of wine around his tongue and decided he really did just need sleep.

He capped the wineskin and forced his feet back into motion, pushing through the tent flap. The large tent, which had room to sleep a dozen men, was warmed by a low brazier near its center; the few empty pallets were situated farthest from its warmth. The straw pallets, blankets, and the tent canvas itself smelled pungently of smoke and oiled leather. It was a musty smell that even in times of dry weather likely never left the space. The men rolled into their blankets were dark shapes that didn't move or budge even as he walked between them, all of them sleeping as if death had chased them there.

He found Aramis by the dim grey of his hat, propped askew over his forehead, and chose the empty bedroll beside him. He spent a long foggy moment undoing his coat and sliding off boots that were laden and slick with muddy water. He shivered as the damp cold touched his skin.

One final thought rang through his mind as he stretched out under his borrowed blanket.

He might prefer to keep himself at a distance for fear of giving himself away or presenting a weakness to outsiders, but it was true that he had always seen there was something wrong with the part of the world to which he was entitled. He had come here to escape those responsibilities, to deny the system he was born to, if only for a moment.

Perhaps it was time to step out of his own way in that regard….

On that muddy and half-formed thought, Athos finally let his eyes droop closed. It wasn't until many moments later that sleep arrived to claim him.

* * *

A/N: Jeez, I feel like this was barely worth posting. There is definitely more planned for this story; the ebbs and flows are coming out a bit longer than I expected, but we're still on track for some serious action set pieces. Just gotta get there, haha. Once again, my apologies for the ridiculously long wait. Thank you for your patience. You have my everlasting gratitude.


	10. Morning Peace Offerings

Athos bolted awake, heart lurching in his chest, and limbs fighting the grip of a heavy wool blanket. The grey of his vision defined itself as the walls and ceiling of a canvas tent, and then the fog in his mind cleared enough to remember where he was. He blew out a breath, feeling sweat cooling on his forehead. The irrational panic faded like fragments of the dream that bore them.

He huffed his irritation as he remembered how difficult it had been to fall asleep in the first place. To fall asleep slowly and to come awake so quickly… He'd been so tired the night before that one would think it should have been the reverse.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes and glanced around. It seemed he was awake before most of the men around him, Aramis included.

He took a moment to observe the sleeping marksman. The man had sprawled beneath the blanket as he slept though his hat had stayed firmly where he had placed it. Athos was relieved that he hadn't managed to toss the blanket aside in the night. It was a chill morning. Athos could feel the cold on the tip of his nose and gooseflesh dimpled over his arms the longer he sat without the benefit of a blanket or his coat.

His hand fumbled for the wineskin he had stashed beneath the head of the bedroll, and with loose detachment, he uncorked the skin and took a hearty swallow. The liquid warmed a comforting line down his throat.

With the grey light filtered through the tent canvas, Athos had no concept of time. It was morning. That was as much as he could discern. The coals in the central brazier had banked into dark ruby embers, their heat much diminished without a hand to tend them. Athos cast his gaze around and found a small stack of wood at the back of the tent. He carefully padded through the sleeping bodies and retrieved a handful of pieces to renew the flames. He churned the fresh wood through the embers, sparks spitting a moment before flames flickered back to life. The remaining coals warmed, orange heat pulsing back through the white ash layer.

Satisfied that the warmth would reach through the tent with time, Athos returned to his bedroll to dress. He leaned over to retrieve his boots and was instantly disappointed to find they were still sodden wet. His coat was in a similar state, the crumpled pile it had landed in without a care the night before now a point of sincere regret. The marksman's jacket looked to be in a similar state.

Athos sighed softly and decided that that would be the first order of business for the day regardless of how early or late it was in the morning.

He pulled on his boots, firmed the broad-brimmed hat on his head, and draped his blanket over his shoulders. He carefully bundled the wet clothing under one arm and took the wineskin with him in the other.

Leaving the subdued tent, he stepped out into the grey overcast chill of a new day, determined that this one would somehow be better than the last.

TMTMTM

Aramis rose slowly to wakefulness, the ground rolling beneath him as he fought a moment of disorientation. His whole body ached with a dull throbbing that gradually settled to a nest of fire around his shoulder. He drew a steadying breath and opened his eyes beneath the sheltering brim of his hat. There was a weighted quality to his limbs that he eventually overcame enough to push the hat back onto his head. He was awake, the desire for sleep had faded and yet he was tired beyond measure. The feeling wasn't unfamiliar, but a part of him had hoped a night spent in a dry tent would change that somehow. Perhaps he was simply too tired for it to matter.

He pushed himself upright. The straw pallet beside his was empty, and Athos was nowhere to be seen. There were still a number of men sleeping, but for all intents and purposes he was alone.

Aramis felt a frown tug at his lips. Perhaps the man had returned to the trenches early. Aramis wouldn't be surprised if he found out that was the case. The man had already proved stubborn and headstrong, capable of making his own choices. Amidst his thoughts there was a tremor of disappointment. He set the feeling aside and reached for where he'd discarded his jacket in the night and then realized it wasn't there. Nor were his boots.

Aramis grabbed his sword and surged out of the tent. He burst into a grey overcast day and lurched to a stop at the surprising tableau before him.

Athos glanced up from where he was seated on a stool by the fire. He was stripped down to his trousers in the chill morning air, a blanket draped over his shoulders and a wooden washbasin on the ground in front of him. His clothes were hanging on a makeshift clothes line, along with Aramis' jacket. The man's hat had found a home on the protruding end of a tent pole.

Athos arched an eyebrow at what must have been a stunned expression on his face. "I hung it to dry. I didn't do the washing. I'm not your laundress."

"Right. Good morning to you too."

Athos snorted. He reached beside him and drew up a waterskin. He tossed it at Aramis. "It's markedly better with this."

Aramis caught the skin and took a moment to examine the other man. He sensed a change in demeanor somehow. Perhaps the man enjoyed mornings; he was up early enough. Then again, perhaps he was the opposite and a fugue of half-sleep simply made him loose and congenial….

Aramis moved stiffly to sit across from his companion and leaned his sword against the nearest tent support. He uncorked the stopper on the waterskin and took a swallow. He was both surprised and pleased to find the skin filled with wine instead of water. He vaguely remembered that being the case from the night before, but that had felt like an age ago, shrouded as it was by a fog of half-formed recollections.

He tipped his head at the wineskin. "You know, that'll buy you time around a bracer of coals on a cold night for sure, more than that since we seem to be in one of the camp's dry spells."

"Dry spells?" Athos glanced around with a sarcastic lift to his eyebrow. "Our clothing is still wet, and I'm not holding a lot of hope this weather will change that anytime soon."

"Strange isn't it, how one can be waterlogged and thirsty in the same breath? This particular dry spell won't be fixed until the next resupply. And that's only if we're lucky. At any rate, if you save some of this, you'll have a good bit of bargaining leverage."

Athos snorted. "Supply and demand. Are you sure you're a soldier and not a merchant?"

"Sometimes I think I'm better suited to be a priest."

"Soldiering, poetry, and mercantile. Hmm, definitely a priest." Athos nodded sagely. "With your charm and ability to convert the masses, you probably would make an excellent priest. I've never met a clergyman who didn't have something to sell."

"Not a man of God, then?" Aramis set the wineskin aside and leaned his hands toward the fire to soak up the warmth of the flames.

"Not any more or less than most."

That was a brazen thing to admit. Perhaps it was a mark of privilege to be secure enough to speak one's mind in that manner. By now, Aramis was sure the man across from him was of noble birth. Though why he was here at the bottom of the trenches was another question altogether. He decided it was no skin off his nose to simply ask him.

"What are you running from, Athos?"

"I beg your pardon?" Athos leaned back in surprise.

"Well, I wager you're nobleborn and yet you take direction well and you didn't secure yourself a rank. So my question is, what are you running from?"

He frowned. "If that were true, why would I tell you?"

"This could be your last chance to talk about it. If you die out here, no one'll ever know."

"If I die, none of it will matter."

"So who is she?"

"Who?"

"This girl you don't want to marry."

Athos narrowed his eyes. "Why would that be your first guess?"

"Because it's what I would do."

"Is someone waiting for you back home?"

"The only ones waiting for me are in my future and they haven't met me yet." Aramis took off his hat and swept it in front of him in a seated bow.

Athos openly cringed at the flare of melodrama. Struggling to keep a straight face, Aramis decided he would have to remember that reaction the next time he needed to get under the man's skin.

Athos seemed to gather himself, and then he answered with forced honesty. "I admit that sounds lonely."

"Oh I have plenty of company."

"Just no company good enough to stick around for?"

"Something like that," Aramis said softly. As usual, it was far more complicated, but he let it pass.

Athos tossed the rag back into the washbasin. "Well, if we're playing a game of questions, then I want to know why you think this injury of yours is of no concern. It's clearly taxing you, even this morning after a full night's rest. So out with it."

"You're going to deflect by claiming a tit for tat? You didn't even answer my question!"

"Maybe that's because it's none of your business." Athos glared.

"I could say the same. In fact, I do say the same."

"Fine." Athos let out a sigh and rubbed his forehead with the back of one hand. "I suppose it wasn't so much a girl as it was a certain set of obligations that were weighing on me. At any rate, I'm here now."

"Ah. Sometimes we're not free to choose for ourselves, and we scrounge for our freedom in any way we can. I had half a thought you murdered someone and were escaping the noose."

"Oh good, so glad to know you think that highly of me," Athos said witheringly.

This time, Aramis couldn't hide his grin, and it twitched into a full-blown chuckle after a moment's pause.

"Well, there you have it, Aramis. Now I believe it's your turn."

"That hardly counted as an answer!"

Athos arched his eyebrow and tilted his head in the gesture that Aramis was beginning to think of as, _Really, Aramis?_

It was his turn to relent.

He groaned. "Merde, you know it's cold out here, right?"

"Indeed it is. You could visit the surgeon instead…."

Aramis scoffed. "Neither of us will be visiting the surgeon if I can help it. I've never seen a worse history of success. If you want to die faster, just have him treat anything as bad as a scuffed elbow. You'll be back in ten days to have the limb removed. After that, you're in God's hands."

"Then I suggest you remove your shirt."

"You're relentless."

"And you're stubborn and foolhardy. Well…?"

"I've already told you. There's nothing to be done. In time, the injury will heal. But time is by the grace of God. It's surely not the domain of man. We're simply at its mercy."

Athos' tone softened. "I'm sure you're right, Aramis, but it will allay my concerns to know that it is so with the evidence of my own eyes."

Aramis sighed and gingerly leaned forward to pull his shirt over his head. He straightened and watched the man's sharp gaze pass over him.

He could see the man's concern shift into sympathy by the deepening frown across his forehead. He knew what Athos was seeing.

A fresh scar on his left side ran across boney ribs, but the wound that was clearly of concern was high on his right shoulder: a musket shot that was much more recent than the sword slice. The scar was red and angry, the edges puckered and raw. It was indeed healing but deep bruises radiated across his shoulder around the wound. The bruising was fresh. It was always fresh: black, blue, and angry red. The wound was right above the spot where he braced his musket against his shoulder. The recoil action of firing constantly aggravated the wound.

There was nothing to be done for it, except perhaps to bath it in cold water to reduce the pain. It would heal on its own or it wouldn't. That had been the state of things since he had arrived on the field. And it would be the state of things tomorrow.

Aramis clenched his jaw and tried hard not to fidget. The cold air prickled across his back. He wanted to say, _There. Are you satisfied?_ But he held his tongue. No need to be more petulant than he had already managed.

Any amount of concern over his wellbeing had always made Aramis uncomfortable. He wasn't sure where that particular trait began in his childhood; it wasn't as if the women in the brothel were oblivious to him, and he had more cause than most to love his mother. Perhaps it was simply that pain was easier to ignore if you didn't stop to acknowledge the hurt. Care and concern from outside parties seemed to encourage self-pity. If he lingered too long on something like that, his mood inevitably soured. He would rather pretend that all was right with the world.

Finally, Athos gestured to Aramis' shoulder. "How old is that?"

Aramis glanced at the injury before drawing on his shirt. "Three months. Maybe four."

"That long."

"Took a bullet in the charge at L'Ile de Re. Got left behind and then reassigned to the fusiliers as soon as this mess started. I guess someone figured it was easier to convalesce in a siege camp than on the back of a horse." He grinned ruefully. "Whoever it was who made that determination doesn't know anything about sieges. Least not, undersupplied ones. Not that it really matters. Doing something is better than lying around. Unless of course the later comes with feminine company." He widened his grin.

"You were cavalry?" Athos asked in surprise.

"Before this, yes. You know, I still prefer a carbine over a musket. Range isn't as long, but the accuracy is more consistent."

Athos stood and fetched Aramis' coat from the make-shift drying rack. "Shooting from horseback… It's little wonder you're so good on solid ground."

"Huh. I suppose you're right." Aramis accepted the coat and carefully shrugged into it.

It was still a bit damp at the seams, but it was warm from the fire. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and find his way back to his bedroll. Around them the camp was beginning to rouse, and it wouldn't be long before they were called away to the front.

He pulled on his boots and stood, looping his belts into place and cinching them tight. "Come. If you're willing, I would take the last of that wine to Gerome."

"You go on ahead. I'll find my way to the jakes and meet you there. And yes, take the wine." Athos also pulled on his boots and coat, finishing the action by sweeping the broad-brimmed hat off the tent pole and setting it rakishly on his head.

Aramis frowned. "You remember the way back through the trenches?"

"Older and wiser, remember? I'm perfectly capable of asking for directions if I need them."

Aramis snorted. "And I'm sure you're stubborn enough not to ask until you're hopelessly lost."

"As if you would do any different."

"Touché."


	11. Bait

Finding the jakes wasn't hard; the soldiers he passed on the way were more than happy to point him in the right direction, and Athos was already on the right track in his guess that they would be at the edge of camp on the down-wind side. The narrow slit trench at the base of a small rise wasn't what he was used to for lavatories, and the smell was akin to the worst of Paris' backwater streets, but he was happy enough to loosen the pressure on his bladder.

The camp had slowly come awake around him, men rising from their tents to tend their equipment or linger near a fire, some boiling water in worn pots. Officers were moving through their men, the best of them checking on their charges and the lesser of their ilk berating those same charges for various acts of laziness. Messengers were beginning to course through the camp, their steps not quite hurried yet as the morning seemed to turn over without a pending disaster to quicken it.

His mind still churning over the newness of his environment, Athos let his feet carry him back toward Lemain by a different route.

This morning, the distant walls were shrouded by a heavy fog, their imposing structure appearing like a muted grey block, barely discernible in form. He thought back to the map, imagining a bird's view of the field with their camp to the east, swampland to the south, an equivalent camp on the west, and a small outpost on the road to the north in the sheltering cover of trees past the rocky scrubland.

Lemain was well and truly encircled. Its fortitude driven by the strength of its walls and by virtue of the fact that the town had seen very little growth since its construction, allowing for most of its important structures to remain inside the walls instead of sprawling across the land like most towns which had been fortified at an earlier point in their history.

Despite its tough nature, Athos was surprised the town had weathered its situation so well. Surely the problems plaguing its attackers would be affecting its defenders in equal measure … if not more so.

Athos found an access point to the trenches and left the picketed tents behind to wind his way back to Aramis and Gerome.

Water still stood in puddles at the lowest points of the dugout, but Athos found his feet capable of finding a dry path over boards and rocks as if his short experienced had been intense enough to burn the memory of the action into his muscles. As he moved into the more active sections, the ground became solid and better maintained: the boards raised high enough to provide a reprieve from the mud.

He zigzagged past a number of resting soldiers in what was the rough direction he needed, stopping once or twice to contemplate one path over another when they both seemed to lead partially away from his desired direction. Eventually he passed into a quiet corridor that was roughly dead center in the trenches' creeping advance toward the walls.

It was as he reached the next bend that he felt the attention of someone at his back, perhaps made noticeable by the temporary lack of other men around him.

He glanced behind him, but the corridor was indeed empty.

He frowned, feeling the hair raise on the nape of his neck. He was being followed.

If it were not deliberate, the man would be walking down the passage behind him without a care. Whoever it was, didn't want to be seen.

Athos took the corner he'd intended and tried to think back to where his tail would've latched onto him. In the trenches surely, but he hadn't seen anyone he recognized on his path.

There was a small jag carved into the earth just around the corner, and he pressed into it, his hand falling on the hilt of his main gauche at his back.

He waited, pushing his breath deep into his lungs and controlling its release.

Whoever it was would likely know this section was a dogleg and would come around the corner quickly thinking Athos was already a ways ahead.

A slim figure darted into his path, and Athos drew his blade and stepped forward in the same motion. He grabbed the front of the man's jacket and shoved his forearm under his jaw, his blade pressing firm against the narrow torso in a very real threat. There was a light gasp that shortened to a squeak. The action was over before Athos could take stock and realize the man he was threatening wasn't a man at all but the errand boy from yesterday.

He pulled away, and the boy sagged, his face white and his eyes wide.

"You were following me."

"Y-yes."

Athos arched an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I-I was just curious, curious-like, that's all. I meant no harm in it."

"You realize I might have killed you just now."

The boy swallowed. "I uh, I didn't think you would notice. Most don't. Or they don't care because I'm so small and they always tell me I'm under foot. I didn't mean anything by it, I swear. Please, I swear."

"And the things you find out about people…., what do you get in return?"

"No, it's not like that! Sometimes the sergeants ask me questions and they give me food, but I don't go snooping for them. Oh please, please don't tell anyone! They'll beat me for sure if they even found out that much."

"Is that not reason enough to keep your nose to yourself?"

The boy hung his head. "I just wish I were like you or Aramis…," he whispered softly, "If I were strong and brave and half as skilled as you, then … then everything would be better."

"That's a foolish dream, boy." Athos sheathed his blade.

"Oh…," he mumbled.

"If you were better at snooping, you would know that one set of things can't make everything better. That is an impossibility. Do you not think we have our own troubles?"

"But they are not my troubles. They must be easier."

Athos leaned back and crossed his arms. "And how could you know that?"

"I don't know. But it must be so!" His eyes shone with earnest need.

"You cling to a false hope. Worse, you wish for something you cannot have in any case. Perhaps instead of dreaming about your troubles being gone, you might take action to overcome them."

"I couldn't. I'm not brave enough."

"I say you could. Bide your time and use your head, boy."

The boy stared at him, his face slack with awe. "You're just like him, aren't you?"

"Who?"

"Aramis."

Athos snorted. "I suppose." By now, he should've expected that answer. He'd woken up that morning to the resignation that they were indeed kindred spirits. There was no denying it now. "Get going, boy. And stop snooping."

"Yes sir. Er … right, okay." The boy ducked his head and scampered off, leaving Athos to stare after him with wry amusement tugging on his lips.

Not entirely what he'd expected for the morning, but it was still on course for being a better day than yesterday.

Out of sight of Athos and barely a bend or two later, the boy rounded a corner and slammed full-bodied into a broad chest.

Large hands clamped around his arms to steady him.

"Oh ho, Little Fish, where are you going in such a hurry?" a deep voice ground out. A cruel smile full of teeth stretched across the man's face, deforming a scar on his cheek….

Athos barely straightened his coat and started walking again when he heard a cry of distress ahead of him. The cry wasn't loud enough to travel far in the humid air, but its source was near and the tension from a moment ago resurfaced as if it had never left. A flood of rational thoughts pushed through his instinctive jolt of fear.

It had to be the boy he'd just sent away, but what trouble had found him? In a place like this, the answer might be as simple as a twisted ankle and a mouthful of muddy water, or, it could be the first blow of an enemy attack.

Athos started forward, feeling the mud slip beneath his boots. He set a hand on his sword hilt, loosening the blade in its scabbard.

He mentally pictured his position on the trenchworks, calling up imagined distances between himself and the forward-most section. Could it really be the enemy? Here? This near to the main camp? These corridors were quiet and mostly empty because the front had moved beyond them. To have enemies here would mean the very trenches themselves had been breached and their defenders overwhelmed. Or the enemy had found a way to bypass the front lines.

Athos moved with haste through a section where the walls had been reinforced by timber planks and slowed only to traverse a puddle spanned by an uncut arm of wood. Then he turned the corner and drew up short.

There was a moment where all he could feel was a sense of relief. And then that paled to anger.

"Unhand that boy," Athos barked.

The imposing figure of Gilles turned to Athos, dragging the boy by the front of his shirt, the tips of the boy's shoes scratching lines through the mud. The vicious smile on the larger man's face stretched wider when his eyes landed on Athos.

"A fighter and a hero. My favorite."

"I said unhand that boy." Athos cooled his voice and kept his hand clearly on his blade.

"Suits me." Gilles opened his hands, and the boy sprawled in the mud at his feet.

The boy scrambled backward until his back was pressed against the wall. He glanced between them, his face a sickly pallor that matched the grey of the sky.

"Go back to your errands," Athos told him calmly. He drew his blade.

There was a sense of inevitability to this event. It worked as a kind of centering effect and Athos mentally stepped into that place of control, breathing in a lungful of air that tasted earthy and damp on his palate. Now they would see who would win in a fight.

"You'd better listened to him, little fish. Your hero sounds serious about this. Though he might regret it." Gilles leered at Athos.

The boy balled his fists and climbed to his feet. For a brief moment he seemed to struggle with himself, and then he slipped past the man and bolted.

Gilles lowered his hands to his sides. His chuckle was rough and full of gravel. "I've relished this moment, like an itch you haven't scratched. I like new ones the best, just like you, they don't know what they've gotten themselves into and I get to introduce them. All part of their survival, you understand."

"If you think I'm a green recruit, then you'll find you're mistaken." Athos held still, waiting for the man to make the first move.

"No loss. I like my meat tough." Gilles drew his sword. It came rasping free to hang loose in his grip. He hadn't made any effort to close the distance between them.

Athos didn't take his eyes off his adversary, but he was hyper-aware of the rough-hewn walls of the narrow trench and the slick mud of the ground beneath him. There was barely enough room to swing a sword let alone fit two men abreast. These corridors were designed to be defended by one man at a time, thin channels that connected one warren to another in some giant rodent's burrow. He tried not to imagine that the man in front of him was the snake in this equation. In the confined space there would be no opportunity to rotate around his opponent or reposition to take advantage of a weakness in form or defense. The larger man presented the bigger target, but the restriction of movement removed any advantage that might come from Athos' smaller stature. It would come down to skill with a sword, efficiency in parry and riposte, and to that Athos knew he was particularly suited.


	12. Wager

It happened fast.

Gilles surged into a deep lunge, his long reach closing the gap in the flash of one movement, sword tip arrowing straight for Athos' heart.

The stillness shattered, the moment before it like leaden heartbeats as a glass falls from a table, falling, falling. And just like that moment, Athos could only react because he had seen the elbow carelessly jostle the goblet of wine, knew it would fall the second before it did, hand reaching to where he would know it would be in the air on its path.

He stepped back, sweeping his sword past his chest, guessing the man's target without knowing it, hearing the metal bite together and feeling the jolt through his arm, the resistance there as the man pushed with a firm wrist to keep the point on target even against Athos' parry. That small step back saved him, taking him a hand span out of reach. Barely in the same thought, he twisted his blade into a natural counter riposte and then aborted the action and gave ground as he internalized the danger of the man's sword point still in his path.

The gap widened between them again.

Air flowed out of his lungs as he exhaled and drew breath.

The man's arms were long and he was strong, but Athos knew he was faster.

Athos would've circled if there was room. He felt like a caged creature, driven to move his feet with nowhere to go.

There was one way to go…

Athos leapt forward with a sweeping cross-body parry, closing with his opponent and clanging aside an answering stab before flicking his sword for the man's face. He delivered two fast strikes against the man's guard and then needed to twist into a guard of his own as the man rotated his blade in a hard hitting counter attack. Athos broke away, his boots somehow finding purchase.

The man was just skilled enough to be a threat in these narrow corridors. Athos felt a hint of lingering weariness from the past day taking its toll on his stamina. It was slight and hardly a concern, but every detail was crisp and present in his mind, like tiny beads in an abacus tallying an account of profits and loss. Would he win this fight or would he lose it?

Athos attacked again, knowing that he had to close the distance before the other man could leverage the use of his longer arms. Parry, strike, guard, riposte, strike. It was the other man's turn to give ground and Athos pressed him harder, not letting him regain the advantage. He stabbed forward, expecting Gilles to sweep his sword aside before it touched. Gilles did so with enough force to throw the sword far wide, the shock reverberating up Athos' arm and into his shoulder, all his muscles shouting at him.

He fought the desire to give way, but Gilles eliminated all Athos' thoughts of recovery as he dropped his sword and stepped into Athos' space, one hand closing around his wrist and the other leveling a sharp punch to the inside of his bicep.

Athos grunted, struggled to hold his grip on his hilt even though his arm was currently pinned against the side wall. He reached for his main gauche, but the man's next blow slammed into his jaw. He was falling. Darkness flashing. Mud splashing, and his ears ringing.

For a moment he could barely catch his breath, not knowing which way was up or down or sideways.

He flopped into a roll, instinct doing the work where his mind struggled to process his new circumstances. He'd lost his grip on his sword and he was sprawled across the ground. Or rolling. Rolling to get away.

But there was nowhere to go. His hand found the wall before he could roll to his front or find his feet.

Something heavy pressed him into the mud, someone lifting him up by the jacket, and then a fist connected with his face. His head snapped back and then another blow.

The sharp tang of copper flooded down his throat and he wanted to cough. Pain bloomed across his face, barely noticed in his sharp suffocating panic but easily overwhelming the rational part of his mind that might have seen him through to escape.

The man's fists were like hammers, their beat steady and firm on an anvil. And Athos surged out of the forge fire when he realized his off-hand had found the hilt of his dagger.

He drew his blade and swept blind, feeling the edge catch on cloth and flesh. The man above him cried out and jerked away.

Athos found the wall and stumbled to his feet, wiping blood from his eyes and trying to see though the fog in his vision.

The big man was crouched before him with a hand pressed to the fresh wound at his side. The man's face twisted on his fury.

Athos forced himself to scan the ground for his sword. And found both blades at the same time that Gilles did.

The big man reached down to grab one in each fist.

Athos drew back along the trench, feeling the wall at his shoulder turn behind him. The world swayed with each step and he felt bile rise in his throat. His boot heel splashed into water.

Gilles roared and charged, swinging with one blade and then the other. There was no way Athos could defend against two swords with one dagger, and he wasn't desperate enough to disarm himself with a dagger throw.

He sucked himself tight to the opposite wall, dagger up to deflect the remaining strike while avoiding the other, then he dove around the corner, his shoulder hitting the ground with a splash of muddy water. His mind latched onto the memory of the branch used as a stepping stone and his free hand grasped it ahead of him.

Gilles pursued him, and Athos twisted full-bodied to swing the makeshift club at his enemy. The thick wood clipped the man in the elbow and he spun away, one sword falling from his loosened grip.

Athos pushed to his feet, only just now catching his breath past the blood clogging his nose and crowding his throat. He spat the excess into the mud and settled into a ready stance, dagger and branch held before him.

Gilles shook out his hand, and it was Athos' turn to act first. He stepped forward, sweeping the man's sword aside to come in close with the dagger, aiming for the man's bleeding side. Gilles gave ground, backpedalling from Athos' stab and drawing them back into the corridor they started in. Athos pressed closer, swinging backhanded with the branch and then reversing the motion to deflect a half-weighted counter stab from the larger man trying to use Athos' forward momentum against him. The wood sounded hollow where it connected with the blade. And where metal might glance together and shear away, metal and wood met and married, the sword edge burying deep and lodging in place. Athos snapped his wrist, twisting the wood and sending the sword spinning out of Gilles' grip.

The man's eyes widened.

Athos lunged.

"Halt!" a new voice bellowed.

Athos swung for the side of Gilles' head.

"I said HALT!"

The big man blocked the blow with his forearm, but Athos used the momentum from the swing to punch forward with the dagger, unloading all of the coiled energy from his dropped shoulder to charge the strike. He meant it to be fatal.

A figure muscled between them, the dagger splanging off a shiny breastplate as two more sets of hands clamped onto Athos' shoulders and yanked him backward. Athos growled and fought off the sudden choking press of men.

The man in front of him leveled him with a fist to the side of the head, and he felt himself go limp in the men's arms.


	13. Trap

Hurting and tired, Aramis walked through camp holding the wineskin and cradling his rifle. The morning conversation with Athos had been a pleasant distraction, but now he found himself struggling to keep his mind on the thoroughfare before him. Men bustled about in their duties, or in preparation there-of, and the camp had this quiet energy that spoke of a day's just beginning. Aramis glanced around and half wondered how many minds were still lost in the hell-fires of yesterday regardless. Much like his own.

He had been a soldier long enough now to recognize his own need for distraction when the battle was over but not faded from memory or flesh. Thus far, he had found that distraction in a number of places during his career, from tending horses, to carousing with companions, or even helping the surgeons. Sometimes he had even been known to help bury the dead or offer prayers to those remaining. It was not often that idleness found him after a battle, but perhaps it was the nature of this particular campaign and his position in it that saw that wasn't the case in far too many instances. This siege seemed to want to pain him in every way possible. Simply enduring it had become his goal. And even that was growing harder.

A heaviness weighing on his heart, the last person Aramis wanted to see as he moved through the picketed tents was Remi.

"Aramis!" The other dark-haired fusilier leapt up from his seat near a low fire and waved for Aramis to join him.

Aramis debated acting like he hadn't heard so he could continue on his way. But he knew the other man wouldn't stand for that and he'd likely end up with a shadow dogging his steps until he acknowledged him.

Aramis didn't have anything against the other fusilier. They had shared enough meals in the past to be comfortable in each other's presence, but they had never deepened that acquaintance beyond that. Perhaps in part because Aramis had always found the other man to be awkward and nervous at the best of times, filled with a pent-up energy that seemed determined to jostle its way out of him even when he was sitting still. He had never struck Aramis as being capable of having conviction in any cause or direction, and he was always last to decide for himself how he felt about things as if he put too much stock in the opinions of others. But for all those particularities, Aramis had seen enough of the other man to know that he meant no ill-intention and that his insecurities led him to care about the men around him more than some.

Aramis let out a soft sigh and turned to follow the other man's beckoning while trying to hide his reluctance.

This was not a distraction. On the contrary. He could see the man winding up to bursting with the topic on both their minds.

It was clear the man wanted to get it off his chest, wanted to hand the weight off to someone else. Aramis wasn't going to refuse him the opportunity, but he wished he had more strength in his limbs to bear someone else's grief along with his own.

Remi held out a hand in greeting and Aramis took it briefly.

"I'm glad to see you, Aramis. Well met. Have you seen Jacque?"

"No. Do you know if he made it off the field?" Aramis dared to let himself hope.

"Not last I heard, no. It's daylight now. If he hasn't made it back…"

Aramis nodded, purposely keeping his eyes from drifting in the direction of the walls. Either Jacque was dead or he was hiding out for another day and night. On the north end of the field, it could go either way.

Remi's long face stretched even longer and his brow furrowed. "Did you hear about Verne?"

Aramis sighed. "Not in detail. I'd heard he didn't make it."

Remi nodded and swallowed. "He took a musket ball to the leg. He was bleeding everywhere. The retreat was so harried, there was no one to help me carry him."

 _Did you even try?_ Aramis swallowed the thought and buried it as far down as it would go. He _would not_ say those words. He shouldn't have even thought them.

"I'm sorry," Aramis said softly. The words sounded hollow and he realized he'd stripped all emotion from them. They were simply the empty words you say when you have nothing left to feel beyond numb acquiescence. It was done. Verne had been a sturdy companion with a good sense of humor. He'd been an excellent storyteller who could capture a dozen men's attentions around a fire with everyone laughing by the end over some lewd joke or another. Part of Aramis was glad their dwindling fusilier numbers had meant that their company was stretched far across the lines. It meant Aramis had a measure of distance from losses like this one.

Remi stared into the flames, his hands twisting together in a nervous wringing motion. "There was so much blood. He wouldn't have lived either way, though he… he begged me. Begged me to help him."

 _But you didn't help him, and he's dead now, so you'll never know for sure if he could've been saved._ Aramis bit the inside of his cheek.

Remi turned his searching gaze to Aramis. "Everyone was running. I couldn't carry him on my own. I'd be dead just like him. You understand, don't you, Aramis?"

"It's done. Leaving it be is about all you can do now. Leaving it be and offering a prayer or two."

"Right. You're right."

"If you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be."

"Of course. God bless and safe passage, Aramis."

Aramis tapped two fingers to the brim of his hat and turned away before the raw emotions in his chest could burn their way onto his face. Remi didn't need his anger. He'd done nothing less than any other man would've. Aramis had seen enough of men at war to know. In the darkest moments, each was responsible for his own. No matter how much Aramis might wish it, there was no use in expecting more. Bravery and honor were simply ideals. Never mind that _he_ held himself to a higher standard.

Aramis forced his thoughts through three prayers for lost soldiers as he made his way into the trenches. He passed two separate digging crews already hard at work shoring up the trenchworks and another busy bulking the embankments surrounding one of the forward cannons. Someone higher up saw fit to make use of the fog blocking the field from view. No doubt the enemy would be making equal use of the respite. Aramis wondered if he would get another chance at the man in the brown hat who had foiled him upon the walls. If the man was smart, he would find another hat.

Finally he rounded the corner into the alcove where he had spent the majority of his time for the past two weeks. Most of the men were still wrapped in their cloaks and blankets, catching the last of the morning's peace. The few that were awake offered him subdued nods of greeting. Aramis returned those and went to Gerome's side, finding his friend almost exactly as he left him in the night.

He tapped Gerome in the foot to rouse him and held out the wineskin. "Courtesy of the captain and our friend Athos."

Gerome blinked owlishly up at him. "You look like shit. I thought the captain had you sleeping in a feather bed last night. Clearly that was wasted on you." He reached out and took the skin.

Aramis scoffed. "Feather bed? What dream were you having?" Aramis leaned his rifle against the wall next to Gerome and carefully rotated his shoulders, wincing a bit.

"One in which I didn't get woken from deep slumber by your gaunt and yet irritatingly handsome face twice in a row."

"Come now. I know you're happy to see me."

"And where's our newfound friend?" Gerome searched the dugout with a quick glance. He unstopped the skin and took a swallow, his eyes lighting up when he found the contents to be wine. "Yes, where is that fine fellow indeed? Wait. Are you sure you didn't steal this, Aramis?"

Aramis put a hand to his heart in mock agony. "You wound me!"

"It's too good is what it is." Gerome had another draw.

"Well then save some for later. Or at the very least, save some for me." Aramis reached for the skin.

Gerome jerked it out of reach and grinned. "It's mine now. You already gave it up. I'm not letting you go back on that."

Aramis gave him a stern frown. "Now that's just not nice."

"You've gotta pay me back for all that lost sleep somehow!"

"Aramis!" Both of them looked up at the panicked shout to see the errand boy slide around the corner and scramble toward Aramis. Aramis caught the boy around the arms to keep him upright in the mud.

"Breathe and then speak clearly," Aramis said gently.

The boy took a gasping breath, his eyes wide and turbulent. "It-It's Athos! Gilles… Gilles caught me and— and— Gilles, he— Athos told me to go."

"Slow down, boy!" Gerome barked.

"They mean to fight each other! Please! You must come quick!"

Movement behind the boy's shoulder caught Aramis' eye and he glanced up to see Deon and his characteristic hawk-like profile watching from the opposite side of the alcove. Aramis felt something in his belly grow cold.

TMTMTM

When Athos shook off the haze, his weapons were gone and he was being held on his knees by two men. The third, who he recognized as Sergeant Bernet, loomed over him, his face red beneath the brim of his helmet. His eyes were wild with energy that seemed to vibrate his whole frame. He was shouting something into Athos' face that he couldn't seem to hear.

Athos lolled his head to the side to look at the man through the eye that wasn't obscured by blood. Beyond the man, Gilles was crouched against the side of the trench, a fourth man peeling back his coat and shirt to assess the wound at his side.

By all rights, Athos had won that fight. It was a pity the sergeant had intervened before Athos could land the final blow.

"…you will be punished for this. Not only did you take part in an unsanctioned duel, but you sought this man's death. You will pay a heavy price. In fact, I don't think it can wait. Bind his hands!"

Athos roused himself as the men drew his arms behind his back to tie them.

"Preposterous! I was not the one who sought the fight. By rights that blame lies on that man there. What I did in defense is no more culpable than that. You would punish me under this pretense and not him?"

"Had I not been wearing this breastplate that blow might have killed me in his place. Is that what you call self-defense?" Bernet scoffed. "Not by even a moderate's definition. You fought far past first blood, if that's what you dream to call that injury." The sergeant gestured to the man seated behind him.

"If that was supposed to be an honorable duel, then your man needs to be taught what that is."

Bernet stepped close. "Do you think the king or his commander care? This is war. The only thing that counts for the reports is a toll of death, the number of hands to wield weapons on the field, and the number of mouths to provision for. You sought to kill one of our own. It is my duty to punish you for it." The sergeant snapped his fingers. "Bring him!"

Athos struggled against the hands holding him, but they drew him forward. The fog at the edges of his mind pulsed tighter across his vision as he resisted. He felt as if ephemeral jaws were closing around him and he had the sense that he had landed himself in a great trap. Gilles leered at him as they passed. The sergeant leading the way paid no mind to the large man nursing the cut on his side. Their eyes did not meet, but it was as if by pre-ordained agreement instead of logical disregard. While the apprehension of this impending punishment was clear in his mind, Athos began to feel an even greater sense of dread as to what this all meant. He began to hope that unfair treatment was all he had to expect. He could weather that. But if this string of events had been orchestrated….

Aramis' warnings from the night before came unbidden to his mind.

" _You shouldn't provoke them… They'll take it as encouragement. They don't play by the rules and that makes them dangerous."_

He glanced across his captors but found no sign of the hawk-nosed man from earlier. That could mean nothing or it could mean everything. The clouded jumble of his thoughts struggled to parse it. Either his absence proved that Athos' day had simply taken a turn for the worse or it could mean the man was off enacting a different part of the plan. A more sinister part….

Bernet and his accompanying men dragged Athos into a wide alcove which was conveniently empty of bystanders and anyone who could give an accurate witness account.

Athos had found no slack in his bonds and the men holding him forced him back to his knees.

With a particular spark of eagerness in his eyes, Bernet pulled a pair of leather gloves from his belt and slid them onto his hands, showing in that practiced action a lust for blood and a distaste for the feel of it on his hands. Athos met his gaze with as much cold disgust as he could manage, daring the man to show his true colors and make a mockery of his standing. That's what this was after all, a mockery for all that authority should be and must be out of duty to those beneath.

In defiance of the blood flowing from split lips and abrasions to the cheek and eyebrow, Athos drew self-righteous arrogance around him like a cloak, bearing it across straight shoulders, the upward tilt of his chin, the hard flint of his eyes, like a man confident and comfortable with it. As a man might be who was confident enough with a cloak that he could wield it in battle like a shield. And indeed, Athos supposed he was quite practiced in both arrogance and self-righteousness.

Bernet's lips twisted on a sneer, the hunger in his eyes eclipsed by his anger.

 _That's right, you bastard, I'll do everything in my power to make sure you don't enjoy this._

Bernet stepped forward and tangled his fist in Athos' hair. "What makes you so infuriatingly different? I wonder… If I dig far enough down, beat far enough through your skin, will I find an answer to that do you think? Or will I find that in fact you're no different than anyone else. You'll bleed like the rest, scream like the rest, cry and faint where you must, and wish after your mother and father before the end. I suppose it all depends how far I go. I promise you, I can reach even that end of you, the deepest darkest part of yourself you wish no one ever to see."

"If you think your worst is good enough, then by all means, prove the monster you are. This sham of justice will be your undoing one day."

"But at this rate, you won't be around to see it," Bernet hissed.


	14. Rescue

**A/N:** So confession time, I've been really struggling with this story for a couple of chapters and I wasn't really happy with how it turned out. Today I finally had some time to devote to writing and I took a hard look at the last few chapters and decided I wasn't going to be happy if I didn't address some of my issues. SO…. I've gone back and retooled things – mostly just where the chapters begin and end starting with chapter 11. I cleaned up a couple of things that were bugging me in the last chapter and all of a sudden, voila!, I was happily writing again. **What you see below is indeed a new chapter (although you'll recognize the first 400 or so words from the previous chapter where they used to live before the readjust).** And I've already got the next chapter well underway because yeah, not hating it anymore lol. If you _do_ go back to reread, you'll find nothing is really changed except one portion of dialogue between Athos and the sergeant in chapter 13.

I want to say a big thank you to everyone sticking around through this very long process. I know everyone's wondering where the heck I'm taking this story, but it's somewhere awesome, I promise. I haven't been putting down this tangle of threads for nothing, and I think I'm done strangling myself with them for a while at least, so get ready for some serious plot progression in the next few chapters.

* * *

Bernet stepped back and unbuckled his sword from his belt. Blade still in its scabbard, he swept it forward and caught Athos beneath the ribs. The air whooshed from Athos' lungs and he curved inward against the dull flash of pain that stole his ability to draw a new breath. The men holding his arms jerked him upright to receive another blow, this one higher across the floating ribs on his right side.

It was like drowning, Athos mused in a detached thought after the third blow. His lungs burned for air yet his chest spasmed tight, in shock or helpless defense Athos couldn't tell. The fog in his vision swallowed the world from view, a harbinger to the darkness that might come sooner than expected. The pounding in his head intensified and he could hear the blood in his ears.

If the sergeant intended to beat him till he was broken, then he was late to the party, Gilles had already beaten him nearly senseless and there would be no breaking to be had if Athos was lost to unconsciousness. Some rational part of his mind found that thought incredibly funny.

The strained chuckle that bubbled past his lips shocked him back to the present moment. His eyes fluttered open as he realized three things at once: the beating had stopped, there was air in his lungs even as each breath burned across his ribs, and he had lost all internal sense of time.

Athos frowned, logic supplying the answer even as his memory could not: he'd passed out, if only for a moment between one strike and the next, going limp and lax in his captors' arms and spoiling Bernet's fun. He'd woken on the thought that the sergeant would be left wanting — the clarity of that thought singing through the fog of pain in such extreme contrast that it had been dazzling.

Athos found himself chuckling further and wondered briefly if he'd lost his mind along the way.

He raised his head to face his judge, jury, and jailer to find the sergeant staring at him with barely repressed anger standing as high points of color on his cheeks.

"You've lost your mind," the man stated in a strangled growl.

"On the contrary," Athos huffed, "I've simply realized your man did your work for you and deprived you of the pleasure. If you really want to break me, you'll have to go easy on me." He met the man's glare with the quirk of a smile, one that bit down on the depth of his humor as if to leave the man on the outside of the joke, a mockery in itself because the joke was so obviously stated at his expense.

The answering strike across the side of the head was enough to send Athos into the darkness and yet somehow he clung to the edges of awareness, the world shifting in and out of his attention as he marveled at how dark that one spot of blood was that had splattered across the ochre colored mud.

"Bernet! Make one more move and I will do what I should have done the last time!" The marksman's strong words cut through the thick atmosphere.

Athos felt air rush into his lungs on his inhale of surprise, the flashing pain across his ribs drawing him out of his shock and the air acting to revitalize him in an instant. He lifted his head to see Aramis standing behind the sergeant with his sword drawn and leveled. A pale-faced Gerome stood at the marksman's shoulder, his hand white-knuckle on his hilt and his eyes wide with obvious fear and determination.

Bernet straightened. "You say that as if you didn't know that's exactly what I want, Aramis."

"I'll call that bluff. That might be what Deon wants, but I know you, Bernet. You're a coward. You've always been too afraid to face me in a fair duel. So choose, let him go, or fight me. If that puts me squarely in your trap, then I'll just have to make sure you don't survive it. How about that? Are you willing to stake your life on this?"

Athos found his voice, "Aramis, leave it. This doesn't have to involve you."

"The only reason you're here is because I'm involved."

Athos quirked a smile and looked to Gerome. "And I thought you said if I stuck around I'd have nothing to worry about and they'd leave me alone."

The other man seemed to relax at his acerbic teasing. "I was being facetious."

"To be fair, Athos. I did try and warn you," Aramis said jovially.

"Enough!" Bernet growled, "Just threatening a superior officer condemns you, Aramis. I don't need to fight you, you've already walked into your downfall."

"That's not entirely true if it's discovered that you've overstepped your bounds, Sergeant Bernet." A third man stepped around the corner behind Aramis and moved to stand before the sergeant. Aramis tilted up his sword to let the man pass. It took Athos a moment to recognize Captain Jardis' lieutenant.

"Lieutenant Bachard." Bernet's face flushed crimson. "It's well within my bounds to punish a man who I witnessed attempting to kill one of my men."

"No, Sergeant, it is within your bounds to hand over such a man to his own superiors for that punishment as they choose it."

"To be coddled and set free no doubt."

"If that is as they choose it, then yes."

"The commander will hear of this."

"Then he can take it up with Captain Jardis, but as it stands now, you will unhand that man and go about your business."

Bernet hissed but relented. He waved to his men and suddenly the hands holding Athos disappeared. Athos slumped sideways into the mud, the sting of his pride lost in the sickening tilt of the ground.

There was a moment of fog as Athos got used to his new position. He sensed people moving around him and when he came back to himself he was aware that Bernet and his men had left.

Aramis loomed in his vision, concern thick in his eyes as cool fingers probed Athos' hairline. "Athos," Aramis said softly.

Athos grunted a non-answer.

Something tugged at his wrists and he jerked until he realized it was Gerome working to unbind his hands. The pressure snapped free and blood surged back into numb fingers. Athos frowned through the discomfort.

The lieutenant crouched next to Aramis, dark eyes scrutinizing Athos where he was lying prone in the mud. Athos let his pride force him back into motion and he held his breath to push himself into an upright seated position. His head swam and his limbs shook but it wasn't so bad that he needed the hand Aramis braced against his shoulder.

Athos cleared his throat and blurrily waved him away. "I'm fine."

"Hardly, Athos."

"I agree," Lieutenant Bachard said. "Aramis, you should take him to the surgeons."

Athos watched Aramis' lips twist but the marksman didn't argue.

"And Aramis, I hope you realize there will be consequences for this. This will not go ignored. If the commander is involved, Captain Jardis will have no choice but to yield and offer some sort of punishment to appease the situation. We may have deferred that cost to another day, but that cost will come."

"So long as that cost is measured by even a shred of justice and is not as it was last time then we will take it as it comes."

"I wish I could say that justice would swing the right way, but it would be foolish to hope that devil of a man will finally get his due. I heard what happened the last time. I am sorry, Aramis."

Athos frowned, wondering at what they were referring to.

"It's done," Aramis said, a tired note in his voice that wasn't there a moment before.

"Though it should not have been so," Lieutenant Bachard said firmly in response.

Aramis turned his attention from prodding Athos' brow to glare at the lieutenant. "You could've waited for me to land a blow before stepping forward if you were so concerned for the justice of it."

"Careful, Aramis. You may have my sympathy and that of Captain Jardis, but we cannot protect you against your own foolish actions in the event you choose such a course. Could you weather that cost as well as you weather the one unjustly given?"

Aramis looked away.

"No, as you already surmised, it's best to stay out of it as much as possible, even when they look to bait you."

The marksman's hand drifted to his knee and clenched into an impotent fist, one that spoke volumes about his frustration.

The lieutenant turned to address Athos. "Athos, was it? Come, let's get you on your feet."

Athos' face was throbbing and his chest ached, but apart from the blood still seeping heavily from his brow, he was relatively steady on his feet when the lieutenant pulled him up with a hand under his elbow. Gerome hovered as if he were ready to catch him when he fell.

Aramis stayed where he was for a moment more before Athos reached a hand into his absent line of view. The marksman took the offered hand and Athos was pleased to find that he had the strength in turn to help his friend to his feet.

Friend….

Athos felt a smile tug at his lips. How strange that something so fundamental could happen in so short a time.

"Aramis, I'll leave you in charge of getting this man to the surgeons. All of you take your rest where you can. I'm not sure what promise of punishment the commander will wrest out of Captain Jardis, but be ready for whatever comes next. I have tasks of my own I need to return to." Lieutenant Bachard nodded at them and turned to leave. He turned back. "Oh and Athos. Whatever you did to provoke Sergeant Bernet… For the love of God, don't do it again."

"Even if that means a young boy gets beaten and abused?"

"We need heroes out there in the field, not dying of their own heroics behind our own lines."

Athos swallowed his next words. For all that the lieutenant was their ally, in this Athos knew the man was wrong, but he also knew the mark of leadership required different views of the world and he couldn't judge a man for views he himself would one day have to uphold. Was it right to choose the life of one over the life of many? A duty to those beneath was a double-edged sword.

"Duly noted," he said instead, and he felt Aramis' frown beside him even though he didn't turn to see it.

The lieutenant left them. The three of them stood in silent contemplation until it was shattered with Gerome leaning over to cough into his fist. The man's pale complexion turned grey. Athos glanced at Aramis to see the marksman's expression darken as he watched his friend struggle to catch his air. Perhaps they had double reason to visit a surgeon.

Gerome's cough settled and he managed a faint smile. "I left the wine behind for safekeeping. I'm starting to regret that." He turned to Athos. "Thanks for that by the way. Aramis upholds that he didn't steal it and I have you to thank instead."

"Perhaps Jardis was trying to apologize for pairing me with you two," Athos said dryly. He reached up to wipe at the blood gumming his one eye together, for all the good that did.

Aramis gestured to the cut on his brow. "It'll need stitches, Athos. Don't aggravate it."

With that thought in mind, Athos moved to take the lead. He'd meant it to be a decisive step forward when in reality it was more of a drunken stagger. He decided he was pleased to manage even that much on his own power when all he really wanted to do was lie down for a few hours and close his eyes against the disconcerting tilt of the world.

Strong hands clasped his arm and he almost pulled away before he realized it was Aramis maneuvering his arm to drape it across his shoulders. "Whoa there, my friend. Not so fast," Aramis said with a flicker of the customary humor in his voice.

"And you're forgetting something," Gerome said behind them. "There's no point patching you up if you don't have these to defend yourself with afterwards."

The marksman turned them in place to watch Gerome collect Athos' discarded weapons.

Athos felt heat rise to his face. How could he have almost forgotten his sword?

Aramis grinned and turned them back in the direction they needed. "I'd make a joke about your addled brains, but it'd be like shooting fish in a barrel."

Athos sent him a withering look. "Is there any other low-hanging fruit you want to pick before we get started? Maybe you should save them for the walk."

Athos hissed as the marksman snaked an arm around his waist and found a developing bruise along his ribs.

"Are they bruised or broken?" Aramis asked softly.

"Bruised I think. I broke a rib falling off a horse six summers ago. Felt like someone was stabbing me with every breath. This is more like I've been beaten by an angry red sergeant."

Aramis snorted. "Sounds about right."


End file.
